


silver and scarlet

by roeboat2416



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Mutant Powers, POV Multiple, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roeboat2416/pseuds/roeboat2416
Summary: Oikawa Tooru is a survivor of the mysterious fever that ravaged the Miyagi prefecture. A decade ago, the deadly fever swept through his nation. Most of the infected perished, while many of the children who survived were left with strange markings. Tooru's black hair turned silver, his lashes went pale, and now has a jagged scar that covers most of his left leg. His cruel father believes he is marked, an abomination, ruining their family’s good name and standing in the way of their fortune. But some of the fever’s survivors are rumored to possess more than just scars—they are believed to have mysterious and powerful gifts.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	1. The Night He Found Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is actually my first fic so I hope you enjoy it. Just a few notes to go over before you start the story. Italicized words are inner thoughts, and words that are emphasized. "Talents" are a form of currency in this world. Also disclaimer I'm nowhere near a doctor so please bare with me when describing bodily injury.

_Oikawa Tooru_

_June 31st, 1365_

_City of Aoba Johsai_

_Miyagi Prefecture_

_Southern Tohoku Region_

* * *

Oikawa is going to die tomorrow morning. At least that's what the Inquisitors told him anyway when they visit his cell. He’s been here for weeks. He knows this only because he’s been counting the number of times his meals come.

One day. Two days.

Four days. A week.

Two weeks.

Three.

Oikawa stopped counting after that. The hours run together, an endless train of nothingness, filled with different slants of light and the shiver of cold, wet stone, the pieces of his sanity, the disjointed whispers of his thoughts.

But tomorrow, his time ends. They’re going to burn Oikawa at the stake in the central market square, for all to see. The Inquisitors tell him a crowd has already begun to gather outside.

Oikawa moved to sit straight, the way he was always taught. His shoulders don’t touch the wall. It takes him awhile to realize that he’s rocking back and forth, perhaps to stay sane, perhaps just to keep warm. He hum’s an old lullaby too, one his mother used to sing to him when he was very little. He did his best to imitate her voice, a sweet and delicate sound, but his notes came out cracked and hoarse, nothing like what he remembered. He stopped trying.

It’s so damp down here he thought to himself. Water trickles from above his door and has painted a groove into the stone wall, discolored green and black with grime. His hair is matted, and his nails are caked with blood and dirt. Oikawa wanted to scrub them clean. Although it was strange that all Oikawa could think about on his last day was how filthy he was he couldn’t help it. If Tobio were here he’d most likely give his signature scowl, and murmur something about Oikawa being high maintenance or dramatic, but would nonetheless soak his hands in warm water.

He couldn’t stop wondering if he was okay.

He hadn’t even come to see him.

Oikawa lowered his head into his hands. How did he end up like this, he thought to himself.

But he knew how, of course.

It was because he was a murderer.

****** 

  
It happened several weeks earlier, on a stormy night at his father’s villa. Oikawa couldn’t sleep. Rain fell and lightning reflected off the window of his bedchamber. But even the storm couldn’t drown out the conversation from downstairs. His father and his guest were talking about him, of course. His father’s late-night conversations were always about him.

He was the talk of Miyagi prefecture. _Oikawa Tooru?_ They all said _. Oh, he’s one of those who survived the fever a decade ago. Poor thing. His father will have a hard time marrying him off ._

No one meant because he wasn’t _beautiful_. Oikawa wasn’t being arrogant, only honest. His nursemaid once told him that anyone who’d ever laid eyes on his late mother was now waiting curiously to see how her two sons would blossom into men. His younger brother, Tobio, was only fourteen and already the budding image of perfection. Unlike Oikawa, Tobio had inherited their mother’s rosy temperament and innocent charm. He’d kiss his cheeks and laugh and twirl and dream. When they were very small, they’d sit together in the garden and Tobio would braid periwinkles into Oikawa’s hair. Oikawa would sing to him. Tobio would make up games.

They loved each other, once.

Their father would bring Tobio jewels and watch him clap his hands in delight as he strung them around his neck. He would buy him exquisite garments that arrived in port from the farthest ends of the world. He would tell him stories and kiss him goodnight. He would remind him how handsome he was, how far he would raise their family’s standing with a good marriage, how he would attract princes, and kings if he desired. Tobio already had a line of suitors eager to secure his hand, and their father would tell each of them to be patient, that they could not marry him until he turned seventeen.

 _What a caring father_ , everyone thought.

Of course, Tobio didn’t escape all of their father’s cruelty. He purposely brought him attire that was way too tight and painful. He enjoyed seeing his feet bleed from the hard, jeweled shoes he encouraged him to wear.

Still. Their father loved him, in his own way. It was different, because Tobio was his investment.

Oikawa was another story. Unlike his brother blessed with shining black hair to complement his sapphire-colored eyes and rich olive skin, he was flawed. And by flawed, he meant this: When Oikawa was four years old, a fever that none of the neighboring doctors were familiar with reached its peak and everyone in Aoba Johsai barred their homes in a state of panic. No use. His mother, brother, and him all came down with the sickness. It was always easy to tell who was infected. Strange mottled patterns showed up on their skin, their hair and lashes flitted from one color to another, and pink, blood-tinged tears ran from their eyes. Oikawa still remembered the smell of sickness in their house, the burn of brandy on his lips. A tendon in his left knee became so infected that a doctor had to remove it. He did it with a red-hot knife and a pair of burning tongs.

So, yes. It was quite easy to say that Oikawa was flawed.

Apart of the _marked_ as everyone called it.

While Tobio emerged from the fever unscathed, Oikawa now had a large red whittled scar that spread from his top left knee to the back of his mid calf. There is a major dent in the area where the infected tendon used to be, and it took Oikawa years to even figure out how to walk properly again since the surrounding bone didn’t heal correctly. It still gave him trouble if he overused it. While Tobio’s hair remained a glossy raven black, the strands of Oikawa’s hair and lashes turned a strange, ever-shifting silver, where black previously was there was now a mix of chestnut brown hair, and thickening silver strands, so that in the sunlight they looked close to white, like a winter moon, and in the dark they changed to a deep gray, shimmering silk spun from metal. As the years have gone on the chestnut in his hair continued to fade and change to silver.

At last Oikawa and Tobio fared better than their Mother did. Their mother, like every infected adult, died. He remembered crying in her empty bedchamber each night, wishing the fever had taken Father instead.

Oikawa’s father and his mysterious guest were still talking downstairs. His curiosity got the best of him and he swung his legs over the side of his bed, crept toward the chamber door, and opened it a crack. Dim candlelight illuminated the hall outside. Below, his father sat across from a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair at his temples, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck in a short customary tail, the velvet of his coat shining black and orange in the light. His father’s coat was velvet too, but the material was worn thin. Before the illness crippled the country, his clothes would have been as luxurious as his guest’s. But now? It’s hard to keep good trade relations when you have a _marked_ son tainting your family’s name.

Both men drank wine. Father must be in a negotiating mood tonight, he thought, to have tapped one of the last good casks.

Oikawa opened the door a little wider, crept out into the hall, and sat, knees to his chin, along the stairs. His favorite spot. Sometimes Oikawa would pretend he was a king, and that he stood here on a palace balcony looking at his groveling subjects. Now Oikawa took up his usual crouch and listened closely to the conversation downstairs. As always, he made sure that his left leg was in a comfortable enough position that was equally hidden, if he was caught at least the guest wouldn’t see this flaw. His hand rested awkwardly on the staircase. His father had broken his fourth finger, and it never healed straight. Even now, he could not curl it properly around the railing.

“I don't mean to insult you, Master Oikawa,” the man said to his father. “You were a merchant of good reputation. But that was a long time ago. I don't want to be seen doing business with a _marked_ family, bad luck, you know. There’s little you can offer me.”

His father kept a smile on his face. The forced smile of a business transaction.

“There are still lenders in town who work with me. I can pay you back as soon as the port traffic picks up. Karasuno silks and spices are in high demand this year-”

The man looked unimpressed. “The king’s dumb as a dog,” he replied. “And dogs are no good at running countries. The ports will be slow for years to come, I’m afraid and with the new tax laws, your debts will only grow. How can you possibly repay me?”

His father leaned back in his chair, sipped his wine, and sighed. “There must be something I can offer you.”

The man studied his glass of wine thoughtfully. The harsh lines of his face made Oikawa shiver. “Tell me about Tooru. How many offers have you received?”

His father blushed. As if the wine hadn’t left him red enough already. “Offers for Tooru’s hand have been slow to come.”

The man smiled. “None for your little abomination, then.”

My father’s lips tightened. “Not as many as I’d like,” he admitted.

“What do the others say about him?”

“The other suitors?” My father rubbed a hand across his face. Admitting all Oikawa’s flaws embarrassed him. “They say the same thing. It always comes back to his...markings. What can I tell you sir? No one wants one of the _marked_ to pass down their abnormalities.”

The man listened, making sympathetic sounds.

“Haven’t you heard the latest news from Johzenji? Two noblemen walking home from the opera were found burned to a crisp.” His father had quickly changed tack, hoping now that the stranger would take pity on him. “Scorch marks on the wall, their bodies melted from the inside out. Everyone is frightened of the _marked_ , sir. Even if you are reluctant to do business with me. Please I’m helpless.”

Oikawa knew what his father spoke of. He was referring to a very specific type of _marked_ , a rare handful of children who came out of the fever with scars far darker than Oikawa’s, came out with frightening abilities that don’t belong in this world. Everyone talked about these _marked_ in hushed whispers; most feared them and called them demons. But Oikawa secretly held them in awe. People said they could conjure fire out of thin air. Could call the wind. Could control beats. Could disappear. Could kill in the blink of an eye.

Oikawa knew that if you searched the black market, you’d find flat wooden engravings for sale, elaborately carved with their names, forbidden collectibles that supposedly meant _they_ would protect you or, at the least, they would not hurt you. No matter the opinion, everyone knew their names. _The Reaper. Magiano. The Windwalker. The Alchemist._

A group of the _Marked_ that went by the anonymous name, _Seijoh._

The man shook his head. “I’ve heard that even the suitors who refuse Tooru still gape at him, sick with desire.” He paused. “True, his markings are...unfortunate. But a good looking boy is a good looking boy.” Something strange glinted in his eyes. Oikawa’s stomach twisted at the sight, and he tucked his chin tighter against his knees, as if for protection.

His father looked confused. He sat up taller in his chair and pointed his wine glass at the man. “Are you making me an offer for Tooru’s hand?”

The man reached into his coat to produce a small brown pouch, then tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy clink. As a merchant's son, Oikawa became well acquainted with money and he could tell from the sound and from the size of the coins that the purse was filled to the brim with gold talents. Oikawa stifled a gasp.

As his father gaped at the contents, the man leaned back and thoughtfully sipped his wine. “I know of the estate taxes you haven’t yet paid to the crown. I know of your new debts. And I will cover all of them in exchange for your son Tooru.”

My father frowned. “But you have a wife.”

“I do, yes.” The man paused, then added, “I never said I wanted to _marry_ him. I am merely proposing to take him off your hands.”

Oikawa felt the blood drain from his face.

“You...want him as your mistress, then?” father asked.

The man shrugged. “No noble in their right mind would make a husband of such a marked boy, he could not possibly attend public affairs on my arm. I have a reputation to uphold, Master Oikawa. But I think we can work this out. He will have a home, and you will have your gold.” He raised a hand, “One condition. I want him _now_ , not in a year. I’ve no patience to wait until he turns seventeen.”

A strange buzzing filled Oikawa’s ears. No boy or girl was allowed to give themselves to another until they turned seventeen. This man was asking his father to break the law. To defy the gods.

His father raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t argue. “A mistress,” he finally said. “Sir, you must know what this will do to my reputation. I might as well sell him to a brothel.”

“And how is your reputation faring now? How much damage has he already down to your professional name?” He leaned forward. “Surely you’re not instinating my home is nothing more than a common brothel. At least your Tooru would belong to a noble household.”

As Oikawa watched his father sip his wine, his hands began to tremble. “A mistress,” he repeated.

“Think quickly, Master Oikawa. I won’t offer this again.”

“Give me a moment,” his father anxiously reassured him.

Oikawa didn’t know how long the silence lasted, but when his father finally spoke again, he jumped at the sound. “Tooru could be a good match for you. You’re wise to see it. He is lovely, even with his markings, and...spirited.”

The man swirled his wine. “And I will tame him. Do we have a deal?”

Oikawa closed his eyes. His world swam in darkness, he imagined the man’s face against his own, his hand on his waist, his sickening smile. Not even a husband. A _mistress_. The thought made Oikawa shrink from the stairs. Through a haze of numbness, he watched his father shake hands and clink wine glasses with the man. He looked relieved of a great burden. “Tomorrow, he’s yours. Just...keep this private. I don’t want Inquisitors knocking on my door and fining me for giving him away too young.”

“He’s _marked_ ” the man replied.

“No one will care.” He tightened his gloves and rose from his chair in one elegant move. His father bowed his head. “I’ll send a carriage for him in the morning.”

As his father escorted the man to the door, Oikawa stole away into his bedchamber and stood there in the darkness, shaking. _Why did my father’s words still stab me in the heart?_ He should be used to it by now. _What had he once told me? My poor Tooru_ , his father said, caressing his scarred knee with a thumb. _It’s a shame. Look at you. Who will ever want a marked being like you?_

 _It will be all right_ , Oikawa tried telling himself. _At least you can leave your father behind. It won’t be so bad_. But even as he thought this, he felt a weight settle in his chest. He knew the truth. The _marked_. Bad luck. And, now more than ever, feared. He would be tossed aside the instant the man tired of him.

Oikawa’s gaze wandered around his bedchamber, settling finally on his window. His heartbeat stilled for a moment. Rain drew angry lines down the glass, but through it he could still see the deep blue cityscape of Aoba Johsai, the rows of domed brick towers and cobblestone alleys, the marble temples, the docks where the edge of the city sloped gently into the sea, where on clear nights gondolas with golden lanterns would glide across the water, where the waterfalls that bordered thundered. Tonight, the ocean churned in fury, and white foam crashed against the city’s horizon, flooding the canals.

Oikawa continued staring out the rain lashed window for a long while.

Tonight. Tonight was the night.

He hurried to his bed, bent down, and dragged out a sack he’d made with a bedsheet. Inside it were fine silverware, forks and knives, candelabras, engraved plates, anything he could sell for food and shelter. _That’s another thing to love about me. He stole_. He silently grumbled to himself. He’d been stealing from around their house for months, stashing things under the bed in preparation for the day when he couldn’t stand to live with his father any longer. It wasn’t much, but he calculated that if he sold all of it to the right dealers, he might end up with a few gold talents. Enough to get by, at least, for several months.

Then Oikawa rushed to his chest of clothes, pulled out an armful of tunics, and simple pants, and hurried about his chamber to collect any jewelry he could find. His silver bracelets. A pearl necklace inherited from his mother that Tobio did not want. Oikawa grabbed two long strips of silk cloth that could make up a headwrap. He would need to cover up his silvering hair while on the run. He worked in feverish concentration. He added the jewelry and clothes carefully into the sack, hid it behind his bed, and pulled on his soft leather riding boots.

Oikawa settled down to wait.

An hour later, when his father retired to bed and the house stilled, Oikawa grabbed the sack. He hurried to his window and pressed his hand against it. Gingerly, he pushed the left pane aside and propped it open. The storm has calmed some, but rain still came down steadily enough to mute the sound of his footsteps. Oikawa looked over his shoulder one last time at his bedchamber door, as if he expected his father to walk in.

 _Where are you going, Tooru?_ He’d say.

_There’s nothing out there for a boy like you._

Oikawa shook his father’s voice from his head. _Let him find me gone in the morning, his best chance at settling his debts_ , he took a deep breath, then began to climb through the open window. Cold rain lashed at his arms, prickling his skin.

“Tooru?”

He whirled around at the voice. Behind him, the silhouette of a young boy stood in his doorway, his brother, Tobio, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stared at the open window and the sack on Oikawa's shoulders, and for a terrifying moment, Oikawa thought he might raise his voice and shout for Father.  
But Tobio watched him quietly. Oikawa felt a pang of guilt, even as the sight of him sent a flash of resentment through his heart. _Fool. Why should I have felt sorry for someone who had watched me suffer many times before? I love you, Tooru_ , Tobio used to say, when they were small. _Papa loves you too_. _He just doesn’t know how to show it._ Oikawa pitied the brother who was valued.

Still, Oikawa found himself rushing to Tobio on silent feet, and putting a slender finger up to his lips. Tobio gave him a worried look. “You should go back to bed,” Tobio whispered. In the dim glow of night, Oikawa could see the gloss of Tobio’s dark, marble eyes, the thinness of his delicate skin. His beauty was so pure. “You’ll get in trouble if Father finds you.”

Oikawa squeezed Tobio’s hand tighter, then let their foreheads touch. They stayed still for a long moment, and it seemed as if they were children again, each leaning against the other. Usually Tobio would pull away from Oikawa, knowing that Father did not like to see them close. This time, though, Tobio clung to him. As if he knew that tonight was something different. “Tobio,” Oikawa whispered, “do you remember the time you lied to Father about who broke one of his best vases?”

He nodded against Oikawa’s shoulder.

“I need you to do that for me again.” Oikawa pulled away far enough to tuck Tobio’s hair behind his ear. “Don't say a word.”

Tobio didn't reply; instead, he swallowed and looked down the hall toward their father’s chambers. He did not hate him in the same way that Oikawa did, and the thought of going against his teaching that he was too good for Oikawa, that to love Oikawa was a foolish thing, filled his eyes with guilt. Finally, he nodded. Oikawa felt as if a mantle had been lifted from his shoulders, like he was letting go of him. “Be careful out there. Stay safe. Good luck.”

They exchanged a final look. _You could come with me_ , Oikawa thought. _But I know you won’t_. _You’re too scared. Go back to smiling at the gifts that Father buys for you_. Still, Oikawa’s heart softened for a moment. Tobio was always the good boy. He didn’t choose any of this. _I do wish you a happy life. I hope you fall in love and marry well. Goodbye, brother_. Oikawa didn’t dare wait for him to say anything else. Instead he turned away, walked to the window, and stepped onto the second-floor ledge.

He nearly slipped. The rain had turned everything slick, and his riding boots fought for grip against the narrow ledge. Some silverware fell out of his sack, clattering on the ground below. _Don’t look down_. He made his way along the ledge until he reached a balcony, and there Oikawa slid down until he dangled with nothing but his trembling hands holding him in place. Silently hoping this wouldn’t aggravate his knee. He closed his eyes and let go.

His legs crumpled beneath him when he landed, his knee burned. The impact knocked the breath from his chest, and for a moment Oikawa could only lie there in front of the house, drenched in rain, muscles aching, fighting for air. Strands of Oikawa’s hair clung to his face. He wiped them out of his way and crawled onto his hands and knees. The rain added a reflective sheen to everything around him, as if this were all some nightmare he couldn’t wake from. His focus narrowed. He needed to get out of here before his father discovered him gone. Finally, he scrambled to his feet and ran, dazed, toward their stables. The horses paced uneasily when Oikawa walked in, but he untied his favorite stallion, whispered some soothing words to him, and saddled him.

They raced into the storm.

Oikawa pushed the stallion hard until they had left his father’s villa behind and entered the edge of the nearby marketplace. The market was completely abandoned and flooded with puddles, he’d never been out in the town at an hour like this, and the emptiness of a place usually swimming with people unnerved him. His stallion snorted uneasily at the downpour and took several steps backward. His hooves sank into the mud, Oikawa swung down from the saddle, ran his hands along his stallion in an attempt to calm him, and tried to pull him forward.

Then Oikawa heard it. The sound of galloping hooves behind him.

Oikawa froze in his tracks. At first it seemed distant, almost entirely muted by the storm but then, an instant later, it turned deafening, he trembled where he stood. Father. He knew he was coming; it had to be him. His hands stopped caressing the stallion’s neck and instead gripped his soaked mane for dear life. _Had Tobio told Father after all? Perhaps he’d heard the sound of the silverware falling from the roof._

And before Oikawa could think anything else, he saw him, a sight that sent terror rushing through his blood, his father, his eyes flashing, materializing through the fog of wet midnight. In all his years, he’d never before seen such anger on his face.

Oikawa rushed to jump back on his stallion, but he wasn’t fast enough. One moment his father’s horse was bearing down on them, and the next, he was _here_ , his boots splashing into a puddle and his coat whipping out behind him. His hand closed around Oikawa’s arm like an iron shackle.

“What are you doing, Tooru?” he asked, his voice eerily calm.

Oikawa tried in vain to escape his grasp, but his hand only gripped tighter until he gasped from the pain. His father pulled hard, Oikawa stumbled, lost his balance, and fell against him. Mud splashed Oikawa’s face. All he could hear was the road of the rain, the darkness of his voice.

“Get up, you ungrateful little thief,” his father hissed in his ear, yanking Oikawa forcefully up. Then his voice turned soothing. “Come now, my love. You’re making a mess of yourself. Let me take you home.”

Oikawa glared at him and pulled his arm away with all his strength. His father’s grip slipped against the slick of rain, Oikawa’s skin twisted painfully against his father’s, and for an instant he was free.

But then he felt his father’s hand close around a fistful of Oikawa’s hair. He shrieked, his hands grasping at the empty air. “So ill-tempered. Why can’t you be more like your brother?” his father murmured, shaking his horse. Oikawa’s arm hit the sack he’d tied to his horse’s saddle and the silverware rained down around them with a thunderous clatter, glinting in the night. “Where were you planning on going? Who else would _want_ you? You’ll never get a better offer than this. Do you realize how much humiliation I’ve suffered, dealing with the marriage refusals that come your way? Do you know how hard it is for, apologizing for you?

Oikawa screamed. He screamed with everything he had, hoping that his cries would wake the people sleeping in the building around him, that they would witness this scene unfolding. _Would they care?_ His father tightened his grip on Oikawa’s hair and pulled harder.

“Come home with me now,” he said, pausing for a moment to stare at Oikawa. Rain ran down his cheeks. “Good boy. Your father knows best.”

Oikawa gritted my teeth and starred back. “I hate you,” he whispered.

His father struck him viciously across the face. Light flashed across Oikawa’s vision. He stumbled, then collapsed in the mud. His father still clung to Oikawa’s hair. He pulled so hard that Oikawa felt strands being torn from his scalp. _I’ve gone too far_ , Oikawa suddenly thought through a haze of terror. _I’ve pushed him too much_. The world swam in an ocean of blood and rain. “You’re a disgrace,” his father whispered in his ear, filling it with his smooth, icy rage. “You’re going in the morning, and so help me, I’ll kill you before you can ruin this deal.”

Something snapped inside Oikawa. His lips curled into a snarl.

A rush of energy, a gathering of blinding light and darkest wind. Suddenly Oikawa could see everything, his father motionless before him, his snarling face a hairsbreadth away from his own, their surroundings illuminated by moonlight so brilliant that it washed the world of color, turning everything black and white. Water droplets hung in the air. A million glistening threads connected everything to everything else. Something deep within Oikawa told him to pull on the threads. The world around them froze, and then, as if Oikawa’s mind had crept out of his body and into the ground, an illusion of towering black shapes surged from the earth, their bodies crooked and jolting, their eyes bloody and fixed straight on his father. Their fanged mouths so wide that they stretched all across their silhouetted faces, splitting their heads in two. His father’s eyes widened, then darted in bewilderment at the phantoms staggering toward him. He released him. Oikawa fell to the ground and crawled away from him as fast as he could. The black, ghostly shapes continued to lurch forward. Oikawa cowered in the midst of them, both helpless and powerful, looking on as they passed him by.

 _I am Oikawa Tooru_ , the phantoms whispered to his father, speaking his most frightening thoughts in a chorus of voices, dripping with hatred. Oikawa’s hatred. _I belong to no one. On this night, I swear to you that I will rise above everything you’ve ever taught me. I will become a force that this world has never known. I will come into such power that none will dare hurt me again._

They gathered closer to his father. _Wait,_ Oikawa wanted to cry out, even as a strange exhilaration flowed through him. _Wait, stop_. But the phantoms ignored him. His father screamed, setting desperately at their bony, outstretched fingers, and then he turned around and ran. Blindly. He smashed into his horse and fell backward into the mud. The horse shrieked, the whites of its eyes rolling. It eared on its mighty legs, pawing for an instant at the air.

And then down came its hooves. Onto his father’s chest.

His father’s screams cut off abruptly.

His body convulsed.

The phantoms vanished instantly, as if they were never there in the first place. The rain streaked across the sky, and thunder shook Oikawa’s bones. The horse untangled itself from his father’s broken body, trampling the corpse further. Then it tossed its head and galloped into the rain. Heat and ice coursed through Oikawa’s veins; his muscles throbbed. He lay there in the mud, trembling, disbelieving, his gaze fixed in horror on the sight of the body lying a few feet away. His breaths came in ragged sobs, and his scalp burned in agony. Blood trickled down his face. The smell of iron filled his nose, He couldn't tell whether it came from his own wounds or his father’s. He waited, bracing myself for the shapes to reappear and turn their wrath on him, but it never happened.

“I didn’t mean it,” Oikawa whispered, unsure whom he was talking to. His gaze darted up to the windows, terrified that people would be watching from every building, but no one was there. The storm drowned him out. He dragged himself away from his father’s body. _This is all wrong_.

But that was a lie, he knew it, even then. He had enjoyed every moment. “I didn’t mean it!” he shrieked again, trying to drown out his inner voice. But his words only came out in thin, reedy jumble. “I just wanted to escape, I junted wanted to- get away- I didn’t- I don’t-”

Oikawa had no idea how long he stayed there. All he knew is that, eventually, he staggered to his feet. He picked up the scattered silverware with trembling fingers, retied the sack, and then pulled onto his stallion’s saddle. Then he rode away, leaving behind the carnage he’d created. He ran from the father he’d murdered. He escaped so quickly that he never stopped to wonder again whether or not someone had been watching him from a window.

Oikawa rode for days. Along the road, he bartered the stolen silverware to a king innkeeper, a sympathetic farmer, a soft hatred baker, until he’d collected a small pouch of talents that would keep him in bread until he reached the next city. His goal: Dateko, the northern port capital, the crowning jewel of Miyagi, the city of fortified walls. A city large enough to be teeming with the _marked_. He’d be safer there. He’d be so far away from all of this that no one would ever find him.

But on the fifth day, Oikawa’s exhaustion finally caught up to him, he was no soldier, and he’d never ridden like this before. His legs ached and his flawed knee was swollen, he crumpled in a broken, delirious heap before the gates of a farmhouse.

A woman found him. She was dressed in clean brown robes, and he remembered being so taken by her motherly beauty that his heart immediately warmed to her in trust. He reached a shaking hand up to her, as if to touch her skin.

“Please,” he whispered through cracked lips. “I need a place to rest.”

The women took pity on Oikawa. She cupped his face between her smooth, cool hands, studied his markings for a long moment, and nodded. “Come with me, child,” she said. She led him to the loft of their barn, showing him where he could sleep, and after a meal of bread and hard cheese, he immediately fell unconscious safely in the knowledge of his shelter.

In the morning, Oikawa woke to rough hands dragging him from the hay.

He startled, trembling, and looked up to see the faces of two Inquisition soldiers staring down at him, their white armor and robes lined with gold, their expressions hard as stone. _The king’s peacekeepers_. In desperation, he tried to summon the same power he’d felt before his father died, but this time the energy did not course through him, and the world did not turn black and white, and no phantoms rose from the ground.

There was a boy standing beside the Inquisitors. Oikawa stared at him for a long moment before he finally believed the sight. Tobio. His younger brother. Tobio looked as if he’d been crying, and dark circles under his eyes marred his perfection. There was a bruise on his cheek, turning blue and black.

“Is this your brother?” one of the Inquisitors asked him.

Tobio looked silently at them, refusing to acknowledge the question but Tobio had never been able to lie well, and the recognition was obvious in his eyes.  
The Inquisitors shoved him aside and focused on Oikawa. “Oikawa Tooru,” the other Inquisitor said as they hauled him to his feet and bound his hands tightly behind his back. “By the order of the king you are under arrest-”

“It was an accident”- Oikawa gasped in protest-” the rain, the horse-”

The Inquisitor ignored him. “For the murder of your father, Sir Oikawa Haruto.”

“You said if I spoke to him, you would let him go,” Tobio snapped at them. “I spoke for him! He’s innocent!”

They paused for a moment as Tobio clung to his arm. Tobio looked at Oikawa, his eyes full of tears, “I’m so sorry, Tooru,” he whispered in anguish. “I’m _so sorry_. They were on your trail- I never meant to help them-”

 _But you did._ Oikawa turned away from him, but he still caught himself gripping his arm until the Inquisitors wrenched them apart. Oikawa wanted to say to him, _Save me. You have to find a way_. But he couldn’t find his voice. _Me, me, me. Perhaps I was as selfish as my father._

  
****** 

  
That was weeks ago.

Shackled to the wall of a wet dungeon cell with no windows and no light, without a trial, without a soul in the world. This is how Oikawa first came to know of his abilities, how he turned to face the end of his life with the blood of his father staining his hands. His father’s ghost kept him company. Everytime he woke up from a feverish dream, he saw him standing in the corner of his cell, laughing at him. _You tried to escape from me_ , he says, _but I found you_. _You have lost and I have won_. Oikawa tells him that he’s glad he’s dead. He tells him to go away. But he stays.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Oikawa is going to die tomorrow morning.

* * *


	2. The Reaper Enters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I actually have had a lot of free time and this story is just so enjoyable for me to write that I've just poured my heart into it. So hence the very early update, as promised Iwaizumi joins the story and so does another major character ;). I was going to split Iwaizumi's and Oikawa's perspectives into 2 different chapters but the first part from Iwa's is so short that I just thought to smush it all together to this one chapter. Thank you so much for reading! Honestly, when it comes to updates I thought they would only come once a week but that's changing. I'm going to update when I can, and there will ALWAYS be at least one chapter a week but I'm aiming for at least 3 a week. I've already started working on the next chapter and it's a LONG one so I may not get it out till the weekend and I may split it into 2 chapters since it's so long. Once again thank you, and I appreciate all the kudos, and any type of comments <3

* * *

_Iwaizumi Hajime_

When the dove arrives it comes late in the night. It lands on Iwaizumi’s gloved hand. He turns away from the balcony and brings it inside. There, he removed the tiny parchment from the dove’s leg, caresses the bird’s neck with one blood-flecked glove, and unfurls the message. It is written in a beautiful, flowing script. 

_I’ve found him. Come to Aoba Johsai at once._

_Your faithful Messenger_

Iwaizumi remains expressionless, but he folds the parchment and tucks it smoothly inside his armguard. In the night, his eyes are nothing but darkness and shadow. 

_Time to move._

*****

_Oikawa Tooru_

Footsteps in the dark corridor. They stop right outside of Oikawa’s cell, and through the gap in the door’s bottom, an Inquisitor slides in a pan of gruel. It careers into a black puddle in the cell’s corner, and dirty water splashes into the food. If you can call it such a thing. 

“Your final meal,” he announces through the door. Oikawa can tell that he’s already walking off as he says,” Better eat up, little _marked_. We’ll come for you within the hour,” 

His footsteps fade, then disappear althogether. 

From the cell next to Oikawa’s, a thin voice calls out for him. “Boy,” it whispers, making Oikawa shiver. “ _Boy.”_ When he doesn’t respond, he asks, “Is it true? They say you’re one of them. You’re apart _Seijoh_. 

Silence. 

“Well?” he asks. “Are you?” 

Oikawa stays quiet. 

He laughs, the sound of a prisoner locked away for so long that his mind has begun to rot. “The Inquisitors say you summoned the powers of a demon. _Did_ you? Were you twisted by the fever?” His voice breaks off to hum a few lines of some folk song Oikawa didn’t recognize. “Maybe you can get me out of here. What do you think? Break me out?” His words dissolve again into a fit of laughter. 

Oikawa ignores him as best as he can. Being apart of _Seijoh_. The idea was so ridiculous to Oikawa, he felt the sudden urge to laugh along with his crazy dungeon mate. 

Still, he tried once again to summon whatever strange illusion he’d seen that night. 

Again, he failed. 

Hours pass. Actually, Oikawa had no idea long how it had been. All he knew is that eventually he heard the footsteps of several soldiers coming down the winding stone steps. The sound grows nearer, until there is the scrape of a key in the cell’s door and the creak of a rusty hinge. _They’re here._

Two Inquisitors enter his cell. Their faces are hidden in shadows beneath their hoods. Oikawa scrambled away from them, but they grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. They unlock his shackles, letting them fall to the floor. 

Oikawa struggles with what little strength he has left. _This isn’t real. This is a nightmare._ This isn’t a nightmare. This is real. 

They drag him up the stairs. One level, two levels, three. That’s how far underground he was. Here, the Inquisition Tower comes into better view, the floors change from wet, moldy stone into polished marble, the walls decorated with pillars and tapestries and the Inquisition's circular symbol, the eternal sun. Now Oikawa can finally hear the commotion coming from outside. Shouts, chanting. His heart leaps into his throat, and suddenly he pushes back with his feet as hard as he can, his ruined riding boots squeaking in vain against the floor. 

The Inquisitors yank harder on his arms, forcing Oikawa to stumble forward. “Keep moving, boy,” one of them snaps at him, faceless under his hood. 

Then they’re stepping out of the tower, and for an instant, the world vanishes into blinding white. Oikawa squints. _We must be in the central market square._ Through his tearing vision, Oikawa could make out an ocean of people, all of whom have come out to see him executed. The sky is a beautiful, annoying blue, the clouds blinding in their brightness. Off in the distance, a stake of black iron looms in the center of a raised wooden platform, upon which a line of Inquisitors wait. Even from here, Oikawa can see their circular emblems shining on their breastplates, their gloved hands resting on their sword hilts. He tried harder to drag his feet. 

Boos and angry shouts come from the crowd as the Inquisitors lead Oikawa closer to the execution platform. Some throw rotten fruit at him, while others spit insults and curses at his face. They wear rags, torn shoes, and dirty frocks. So many poor and desperate, come to see him suffer in order to distract themselves from their own hungry lives. Oikawa keeps his gaze down. The world is a blur, and he cannot think. Before him, the stake that looked so far away now draws steadily nearer. 

“Demon!” someone yells at Tooru. 

He’s hit in the face with something small and sharp. A pebble, Oikawa thinks. “He’s a creature of evil!” 

“Bringer of bad fortune!” 

“Monster!” 

“Abomination!” 

Oikawa keeps his eyes closed as tightly as he can, but in his mind, everyone in the square looks like his father and they all have his voice. _I hate you all._ He imagined his hands at their throats, choking, silencing them, one by one. He wants peace and quiet. Something stirs inside him, he tries to grab at it but the energy disappears immediately. His breath starts to come in ragged gasps. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes for them to reach the platform, but it startles him when they do. He’s so weak at this point that he can’t go up the stairs. One of the Inquisitors finally picks Oikawa up and swings him roughly over his shoulder. He sets Oikawa down at the top of the platform, and then forces him toward the iron stake. 

The stake is made of black iron, a dozen times as thick as man’s arm, and a noose hangs from its top. Chains for hands and feet dangle from the stakes sides. Piles of wood hide the bottom from view. Oikawa see’s it all in a cloudy haze. 

They shove him against the stake, they crap the chains onto Oikawa’s wrists and ankles, and loop the noose around his neck. Some in the crowd continue to chant curses at him. Others throw rocks. He glances uneasily at the roofs that surround the square. The chains feel cold against his skin. Oikawa reaches out in vain, again and again, in an attempt to call on something that can save him. His chains rattle from his trembling. 

As he looks at the other Inquisitors, his gaze settles on the youngest of them. He stands front and center on the platform, his shoulders squared and chin high, his hands folded behind his back. All Oikawa can see of his face is his profile. 

“Master Ushijima Wakatoshi,” one of the other Inquisitors now introduces him with formal flair. “Lead Inquisitor of Shiratorizawa.” 

_Master_ Ushijima Wakatoshi? Oikawa looks at him again. The Lead Inquisitor of Shiratorizawa has come to see him die? 

Ushijima approaches Oikawa now with calm, confident steps. Oikawa shrinks away from him until his back is pressed solidly against the iron stake. His chains clink against each other. Ushijima lowers his head to meet Oikawa’s gaze. His white robes are embellished with more gold than the others Oikawa has seen, definitely clothing befitting his status, and an elaborate chain of gold winds from shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly young. His hair is olive-brown, dark for some from Shiratorizawa, and cut in a stylish fashion Oikawa hasn’t seen much in Southern Miyagi, shorter on the sides, fuller on the top, with a slender tail wrapped in gold metal trailing down the nape of his neck. His face is lean and chiseled as if from marble, handsome in its coldness, and his eyes are a pale olive. _Very_ pale olive. So pale that they seem colorless in the light. Something then sends a chill down Oikawa’s spine. There is madness in those eyes, something violent and savage. 

Ushijima uses one delicately gloved hand to brush blood strands of Oikawa’s hair from his face, and then lifts his chin. He studies Oikawa’s silvering strands of hair and then he studies his pale legs, eyes falling on his scar, revealed since the fabric from Tooru’s pants had torn. The edges of Ushijima’s mouth tilt up into a strange, nearly sympathetic grin. 

“What a shame,” he says. “You would have been a pretty little thing,” 

Oikawa jerks his chin out of his grasp. 

“A temperamental one too.” Ushijima’s words drip with pity. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Then quietly, his face closed to Oikawa’s, “You will find your redemption in the Underworld.” 

He steps away from Oikawa, turns to the crowd, and raises his arms to call for silence. “Settle now, my friends! I’m sure we’re all excited.” When the crowd’s noise fades to a hush, he straightens, then clears his throat. His words ring out across the square. “Some of you may have noticed a recent rash of crimes on our streets. Crimes committed by people, twisted imitations of people, that feel more than...human. Some of you have taken to calling these new outlaws _Seijoh_ , as if they’re exceptional, _worth_ something. I’ve come here today to remind you all that they are _dangerous_ and demonic. They are murderers, eager to kill their own loved ones. They have no regard for law and order.” 

Ushijima glances back at Oikawa. The square has fallen deathly silent now. “Let me reassure you: When we find these demons, we bring them to justice. Evil must be punished.” He scans the crowd. “The Inquisition is here to protect you. Let this be a warning to you all.” 

Oikawa struggles feebly against his chains. His legs are shaking violently, and his left knee aches. He wants to hide his body from all of these people, hide his flaws from their curious eyes. _Is Tobio somewhere in this crowd?_ Oikawa scans the faces for him, then looks up toward the sky. _It’s such a beautiful day, how can the sky possibly be this blue?_ Something wet rolls down his cheek. Oikawa’s lip quivers. 

_Gods give me strength. I am so afraid._

Ushijima now takes a lit torch from one of his men. He turns it to Oikawa. The sight of the fire sends a greater terror through his veins. His struggles turn frantic. He’d fainted when the doctors removed the tendon from his knee with fire. _What king of pain must it be to let fire consume your entire body?_

Ushijima touches his fingers to his forehead in a formal gesture of farewell. Then he tosses the torch onto the pile of wood at his feet. It ends up a shower of sparks, and immediately the dry kindling catches fire. The crowd erupts with cheers. 

Rage surges through Oikawa, mixing with his fear. _I’m not dying here today._

This time, he reaches deep into his mind and finally grasps the strange power he’d been searching for. His heart closes desperately around it. 

The world stops. 

The flames freeze, their trails of fire left painted, unmoving, stripped of color, hanging black and white in the air. The clouds in the sky stop floating by, and the breeze against Oikawa’s skin dies. Ushijima’s smile waivers as he whirls around to look at Oikawa. The crowd stills, confused. 

Then something rips open inside Oikawa’s chest. The world snaps back into place, the flames roar against the wood. And overhead, the bright blue sky collapses into darkness. 

The clouds turn black. Their outlines take on strange, frightening shapes, and through it all, the sun still shines, an eerie, bright beacon against a midnight canvas. The crowd screams as night falls on all of them, and the Inquisitors draw their swords, their heads tilted upward like everyone else. 

In the midst of the darkness and panic, something moves in the sky. And just like that, the black clouds twist, they scatter into a swarm of a million moving flecks that swirl across the sky and then dive down, down, down at the crowd. A nightmare of _locusts_. They descend on everyone with merciless efficiency, their buzzing drowning out the people’s cries. The Inquisitors swing their swords uselessly as them. 

The flames lick at Oikawa’s feet, their heat searing him. _It’s coming for me, it’s going to devour me._

As Oikawa struggles to keep away from the flames, he notices the strangest thing. The locusts come near, then pass straight through his body. As if they aren’t really there at all. He watches the scene before him, the insects pass right through the Inquisitors too, as well as the crowd of people below. 

_This is all an illusion,_ Oikawa suddenly realized. _Just like the phantom silhouettes that attacked Father. None of it is real._

One Inquisitor has staggered to his feet, his eyes burning from the smoke, and points his sword in Oikawa’s direction. He lurches towards him. Oikawa finds his last reserves of strength and pulls as hard as he can against his wrists. As he struggles, the Inquisitor draws closer, materializing from a sea of locusts and darkness. 

Suddenly-

A rush of wind. Sapphire and silver. 

The fire at Oikawa’s feet flickers out into curls of smoke. 

Something streaks across his vision. A figure appears between him and the upcoming Inquisitor, moving with deadly grace. _It’s a boy_ , he thinks. _Who is this? This boy is not an illusion,_ Oikawa can sense his reality, the solidity of his figure that the black sky and locust’s don't have. He is clad in a whirlwind of hooded blue robes, and a metallic silver mask covers his entire face. He crouches in front of Oikawa, every line of his body tense, his focus entirely on the Inquisitor. A long dagger gleams in each of his gloved hands. 

The Inquisitor skids to a halt before him. Uncertainty darts across his eyes. “Stand aside,” he snaps at the newcomer. 

The masked boy cocks his head to one side. “How impolite,” he mocks, his voice velvet and deep. Even in the midst of chaos, Oikawa can hear him. 

The Inquisitor lunges at him with his sword, but the boy dances out of its path and strikes with one of his daggers. It buries itself deep into the Inquisitor's body. The man’s eyes bulge, he lets out a squeal like a dying pig. Oikawa is too stunned to utter a sound. Something in him sparks with strange delight. 

Inquisitors see the battle and rush to their fallen comrade. They draw their swords at the boy. He just nods at them, taunting them to come closer. When they do, he slips through them like water between rocks, his body a streak of motion, blades flashing silver in the darkness. One of the Inquisitors nearly cuts him in half with a swing of his sword, but the boy slices the man’s hand clean off. The sword clatters to the ground. The boy kicks the fallen sword up into the air with one flick of his boot, then catches it and points it at the other Inquisitors. 

When Oikawa looks harder, he notices that other masked figures flicker among the soldiers, others dressed in the same dark robes as the boy. He didn’t come here alone. 

“It’s the Reaper!” Ushijima shouts, pointing at the boy with a drawn sword. He starts heading toward them. His olive eyes are mad with glee. “Seize him!”

 _That name._ Oikawa had seen it before on the _Seijoh_ carvings. _The Reaper._ He’s one of _them._

More Inquisitors rush up the platform. 

The boy pauses for a moment to look at them, his blades dripping with blood. Then he straightens, lifts one arm high over his head, and sweeps it down again in a cutting arc. 

A column of fire explodes from his hands, slicing a line across the platform and dividing the soldiers from him and Oikawa with a wall of flame stretching high into the blackened sky. Shouts of terror come from behind the fiery curtain. 

The boy approaches Oikawa. He stares in fright at his hooded face and silver mask, the outline of his features lit by the inferno behind him. The only part of his face not hidden by his mask are his eyes, hard, forest green, but alight with fire. 

He doesn’t say a word. Instead he kneels at Oikawa’s feet, then grabs the chains that shackle his ankles to the stake. The chains in his grasp turn red, then white hot. They quickly melt, leaving Oikawa’s legs freed. The boy straightens and does the same to the noose around Oikawa’s neck, then to the chains binding his wrists. 

_Black scorch marks on the walls. Bodies melted from the inside out._

Oikawa’s arm shackles break. Immediately he collapses, too weak to hold himself up, but the boy catches him and lifts him effortlessly into his arms. Oikawa tenses, half expecting him to sear his skin. He smells like smoke, and heat emanates from every inch of his body. Oikawa’s head leans wearily against his chest. He’s too tired to fight, but he still tries. His surroundings swim in an ocean of darkness. 

The boy brings his face close to Oikawa’s. “Stay still,” he whispers into his ear. “And hold on.” 

“I can walk,” Oikawa finds himself muttering but his words slur together and he’s too exhausted to think clearly. He thinks the boy is taking him away from this place, but he can’t concentrate. As darkness descends, the last thing Oikawa remembers is the silver insignia on the boy's armguard. 

The symbol of a dagger. 

* * *

  
  


  
  



	3. Great King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha so this chapter is a tid bit late, but as i promised i have bought at least one chapter this week. i'm so sorry though that it's late i got really busy with school, but i really hope you enjoy. especially the banter between iwaizumi and oikawa ;)

* * *

_Oikawa Tooru_

Oikawa dreams of Tobio. It’s late spring. Tobio is eight, Oikawa is ten, and they are still innocent. 

They play together in the small garden behind their home, a blanket of green surrounded on all sides by an old, crumbling stone wall and bright red gate with a rusty latch. _How I love this garden_. Over the wall climb blankets of ivy, and along the ivy bloom tiny white flowers that smell like fresh rain. Other flowers grow in bouquets along the wall’s edges, brilliant orange roses and cornflowers patches, red oleander and grape-colored periwinkle, stalks of white lilies. 

Tobio and Oikawa always loved to play among the clusters of ferns that sprouted here and there, huddled together in the shade. Now Oikawa spreads his legs on the grass and sits patiently while Tobio braids a crown of periwinkle blossoms into his hair with his delicate fingers. The flowers’ scent fills Oikawa’s thoughts with heavy sweetness. He closes his eyes, imagining a real crown of gold, silver, and rubies. Tobio’s braiding tickles Oikawa, and he nudges Tobio in the ribs, suppressing a grin. He giggles. A second later, Oikawa feels Tobio’s tiny lips plant a playful kiss on his cheek, and Oikawa leans against him, lazy with contentment. He hums his mother’s favorite lullaby. Tobio listens eagerly, as if he were this woman that he barely knew. Memories. It’s one of the few things that Oikawa had that Tobio didn’t. 

“Mother used to say that faeries live in the centers of white lilies,” Oikawa tells Tobio as he works. It’s an old Aoba Johsai folktale. “When the flowers fill with raindrops, you can see them bathing in the water.” 

Tobio’s face lights up, illuminating his fine features. “Can you really?” he asks. 

Oikawa smiles at how Tobio hangs on his words. 

“Of course,” he replies, wanting to believe. 

“I’ve seen them.” 

Something distracts his brother. Tobio’s eyes widen at the sight of a creature moving under the shade of a fern leaf. It’s a butterfly. It drags itself between blades of grass under the fern’s shelter, and when Oikawa pays it closer attention, he notices that one of its shining turquoise wings has been torn from its body. 

Tobio whimpers in sympathy, hurries to the struggling creature, and scoops it into his hands. He coos at it. “Poor thing.” The butterfly’s remaining wing flutters weakly in his palm, and as it does, tiny clouds of glittering gold dust float up in the air. The frayed edges of its torn wing look like teeth marks, as if something had tried to devour it. Tobio turns his wide sapphire eyes to Oikawa. “Do you think I can save it?” 

Oikawa shrugs. “It’s going to die,” he says gently. 

Tobio holds the creature closer to him. “You don’t know that,” he declares. 

“I’m just telling you the truth.” 

“Why don’t you want to save it?” 

“Because it’s beyond saving.” 

Tobio shakes his head at Oikawa sorrowfully, as if he disappointed him. 

Oikawa’s irritation rises. “Why did you ask me my opinion, then, if you’ve already made up your mind?” His voice turns cold. “Tobio, soon you’re going to realize that things don’t end well for everyone. Some of us are broken and there’s nothing you can do to fix it.” Oikawa glances down at the poor creature struggling in Tobio’s hands. The sight of its ripped wing, its crippled, deformed body, sends a jolt of anger through him. Oikawa slaps the butterfly out of Tobio’s hands. It lands upside down in the grass, legs clawing at the air. 

Oikawa is instantly sorry. _Why did I do that?_

Tobio bursts into tears. Before Oikawa can apologize, Tobio clutches the ends of his oversized tunic and jumps to his feet, leaving periwinkle blossoms scattered in the grass. He spins around. 

And there behind Tobio stands their Father, the smell of wine hovering about him in an invisible cloud. Tobio hurriedly brushes away his tears as Father stoops to his eye level. He frowns. “My sweet Tobio,” he says, touching his cheek. “Why are you crying?” 

“It's nothing,” Tobio whispers. “We were just trying to save a butterfly.” 

Father’s eyes settle on the dying creature on the grass. “Both of you?” he said to Oikawa, his eyebrows raised. “I doubt your brother would do that.” 

“He was showing me how to care for it,” Tobio insists, but it’s too late. His gaze wanders to Oikawa. 

Fear hits Oikawa and he starts to scramble away. He knows what’s coming. When the fever first passed through, killing a third of the population and leaving scarred, deformed children everywhere, they were pitied. _Poor things._ Then, a few parents of _marked_ children died in freak accidents. The temples called the deaths acts of demons and condemned the _marked. Stay away from the abominations. They’re bad fortune._ So the pity toward the _marked_ quickly turned to fear. The fear, mixed with their frightening appearances, became hate. Then word spread that if a _marked_ had powers, they would manifest when they were provoked. 

_This_ interested their father. If Oikawa had powers, at least he could be worth something. His father could sell him off to a circus of freaks, gather a ransom from the Inquisition for turning him in, use Oikawa’s power to his advantage, _anything._ So he has been trying for months now to awaken something in Oikawa. 

He motions for Oikawa to come to him, and when he does as he says, he reaches toward him and holds his chin in his cold palms. A long, silent moment passes between them. _I’m sorry for upsetting Tobio,_ Oikawa wants to say. But the words are choked by his fear, leaving him quiet, numb. He imagined himself disappearing behind a dark veil, vanishing to somewhere he can’t see. Tobio hides behind Father, his eyes wide. He looks back and forth between them with growing unease. 

His eyes shift to where the dying butterfly is still struggling in the grass. “Go ahead,” Father says, nodding at it. “Finish the job.” 

Oikawa hesitates. 

Their father's voice coaxes Oikawa on. “Come now. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? His grip on Oikawa’s chin tightens until it hurts. “Pick up the butterfly.” 

Shaking, Oikawa does as he says. He grasps the butterfly’s lone wing between two fingers and lifts it in the air. The glittering dust smears on his skin. Its legs scramble, still fighting. Their father smiles. Tears shine in Tobio’s eyes. He had not intended this. 

Tobio never intends anything. 

“Good,” Father says. “Rip off the wing.” 

“Dont, Father,” Tobio protests. He puts his arms around their father, trying to win him over. But he ignores him. 

Oikawa tries not to cry. “I don’t want to,” Oikawa whispers, but the words fade away at the look in his father’s eyes. He takes the butterfly’s wing between his fingers, then rips it from its body, Oikawa’s own heart tearing as he does it. Its naked, pitiful form crawls in his palm. Something about it stirs a darkness within him. 

“Kill it.”

In a daze, Oikawa crushes the creature under his thumb. Its broken carcass twitches slowly against his skin, before finally growing still. 

Tobio cries. 

“Very good, Tooru. I like it when you embrace your true self.” He takes one of Oikawa’s hands in his. “Did you enjoy that?” 

Oikawa starts to shake his head, but Father's eyes make him freeze. He wants something out of Oikawa that he doesn’t know how to give. His shake changes to a nod. _Yes, I enjoyed that. I loved it. I will say anything to make you happy, just please don’t hurt me._

Nothing happens, and Father’s scowl deepens. “There must be something more inside you, Tooru.” He picks out Oikawa’s ring finger, then runs one hand along it. Oikawa’s breaths quicken. “Tell me I’ve at least been given a _marked_ son of some use.” 

Oikawa is confused. He doesn’t know how to answer. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages to utter. “I didn’t mean to upset Tobio. I just-”

“No, no. You can’t help yourself.” Father glances over his shoulder at Tobio. “Tobio,” he says gently, nodding for him to come close. He inches forward. “Come. Let’s see if your brother has any value.” _Let’s see if he has any powers._

“No, Father, don't-please- '' Tobio begs, then tugs at their fathers arm. “He didn’t do anything. We were just playing.” Oikawa’s heartbeat quickens to a frenzied pace. They exchange a frantic look. _Save me, Tobio._

Father shakes Tobio off, then turns his attention back to Oikawa and tightens his grip around his ring finger. “Are you worthless like that butterfly, Tooru?” 

Oikawa shakes his head in panic. _No. Please. Give me a chance._

“So show me. Show me what you can do.” 

Then he breaks Oikawa’s finger at the joint. 

*****

Oikawa bolts awake, a silent scream on his tongue. His crooked finger throbs, as if it’d been broken only a moment ago instead of six years earlier, and he rubs it instinctively, trying as always to straighten it out. Dark tides churn in his stomach, the familiar ugliness that his father liked to nurture. 

Then he squints in the light. _Where am I?_ Sunlight slants into his unfamiliar bed-chamber from arched windows, filling the space with a cream-colored haze, and gossamer curtains ripple in the breeze. On a nearby table, an open book lies beside a quill and inkwell. Plates of jasmine blossoms sit on dressers and balcony ledges. Their sweet scent was probably the reason why he dreamed of Tobio and him in their garden. Oikawa shifts gingerly, then realizes he’s lying in a bed piled high with blankets and embroidered pillows. He blinks, disoriented for a moment. 

_Perhaps I died._ This room doesn’t really look like the waters of the Underworld, though. _What had happened at the burning?_ He remembers the Inquisitors lined up on the platform, and his hands struggling against iron shackles. Oikawa looks down at his hands- white bandages cover both of his wrists, and he moves them, he can feel the burn of chafed skin underneath. His torn, dirty clothes are gone, replaced by a clean silk robe of blue and white. _Who cleaned and changed me?_ He touches his head, and then winces. Someone also wrapped a cloth tightly around his head, right where his father had pulled at his hair, and when he gingerly combed a hand through his hair, Oikawa realized that it’s been scrubbed clean of its filth. He frowned, trying to remember more. 

Ushijima, the Lead Inquisitor. A beautiful blue day. There was the iron stake, the soldiers, and the lit torch. They had thrown the torch onto the pile of wood at his feet. 

_And then I turned the sky black._ His eyes widening as the memory comes rushing back. 

A knock at his chamber door startles Oikawa. “Come in,” he calls out, surprised at the sound of his voice. It felt strange to give orders in a bedchamber that wasn’t his own. 

The door opens. A young maid peers inside. When she sees him, she brightens and comes bustling in, holding a tray laden with food and a glass of sparkling cordial. Flaky rose bread, still giving off arm clouds of steam; a thick stew swimming with golden chunks of meat and potatoes; iced fruit; fat tarts of raspberry and egg. The rich smell of butter and spices sending Oikawa’s head spinning- he hasn’t eaten real food in weeks. He must look amazed at the slices of fresh peaches because she smiles at him. 

“One of our traders connects us with the finest fruit trees in Karasuno,” she explains. She sets the tray on the dresser next to his bed and checks his bandages. Oikawa finds himself admiring her robe, like the merchant’s son that he is. It’s made out of a shimmering satin trimmed with gold thread, _very_ fine for a servant. This is not coarse cloth you buy for a handful of copper lunes. This is material worth real gold talents, imported straight from Karasuno. 

“I’ll send word that you’re awake,” she says as she carefully unwinds the bandage from Oikawa’s head. “You look much better after a few days’ rest.” 

Everything she says confuses Oikawa. 

“Send word to whom? How long have I been asleep?” 

The servant blushes. When she touches his face with her hands, Oikawa notices how impeccably polished her nails are, her skin pampered and shiny from scented oils. _What place is this? I can’t be in an ordinary household if the servants look as impressive as she does._ “I’m sorry, Master Oikawa,” she replies. _So. She knows my name._ “I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. You’re safe, rest assured, and he should be here shortly to explain everything to you.” She pauses to reach toward the tray. “Have a bite, young master. You must be starving.” 

Hungry as Oikawa was, he hesitates to eat her offering. The fact that she seems to be treating his injuries doesn’t explain what she’s healing him _for._ He thinks back to the woman who took him in after that night, how he thought she would help him. How she threw him instead to the Inquisition. _Who knows what poisons might be in this food?_ “I’m not hungry,” he lies with a polite smile. “I’m sure I’ll feel up to it soon.” 

She returns Oikawa’s smile, and he thinks he sees a hint of sympathy behind it. “You don’t need to pretend,” she replies, patting his hand. “I’ll leave the tray here for when you’re ready.” 

She pauses at the sound of footsteps down the hall. “That must be him. He must already know,” she says. She releases Oikawa’s hand and offers him a quick bow. Then she hurries toward the door. But before she can leave, a boy steps inside. 

Something about him looks familiar. 

An instant later, Oikawa realizes he recognized his eyes- dark forest green, with thick lashes. This is his mysterious savior. Now, instead of wearing that silver mask and his hooded robes, he’s clad in finely spun linen and a black velvet doublet trimmed with gold, clothing exquisite enough to belong to the wealthiest aristocrats. He’s tall. He has the warm tanned skin of the people that live in Southwestern Tohoku region, and his cheekbones are high, his face narrow and beautiful. But his hair holds Oikawa’s attention the most. What once Oikawa assumes was a dark brown that is now fading, looks more like a dark red in the light, so dark it’s almost black, a rich shade of blood that he has never seen before, sticking up in every direction. It is a color not of this world. 

He’s marked, like Oikawa. 

The maid curtsies low for him and mumbles something Oikawa can’t quite catch. Her face flushes scarlet. The tone she uses now is distinctly different from the tone she’d just used with Oikawa- where before she seemed relaxed, she now sounds meek and nervous. 

The boy nods once in return. The maid needs no second dismissal; she curtsies again and immediately scurries into the hall. Oikawa’s unease grows. After all, he saw him toy with an entire squadron of Inquisitors, grown men trained in the art of war, with no effort at all. 

He walks around the chamber with the same deadly grace Oikawa remembers. When he sees Oikawa struggling to a better sitting position, he waves one hand in nonchalance. A gold ring flashes on his finger. “Please,” he says, glancing at Oikawa from the corner of his eyes. “Be at ease,” Oikawa now recognizes his voice too, soft and deep, sophisticated, a layer of velvet hiding secrets. He seats himself in a cushioned chain near the edge of his bed. Here he leans back and stretches out his body, rests his chin against one hand, and lets his other hand remain on a dagger hilt at his waist. Even indoors, he wears thin gloves, and when Oikawa looks closer, he notices tiny flecks of blood on their surface. A chain runs down his spine. The boy doesn’t smile. 

“You’re from the Southern Tohoku Region in Aoba Johsai,” he says after a moment of silence. 

Oikawa blinks. “Pardon?” 

“Tooru is a Southern Tohoku family name, not a western one.” 

_Why does this boy know so much about Aoba Johsai?_ Tooru is not a common first name in the region. “There are many Southern Tohoku immigrants in Aoba Johsai,” Oikawa finally answers. 

“You must have a Western Tohoku baby name, then.” He says this casually, idle chit chat that sounds strange to Oikawa after all that’s happened. 

“My mother used to call me Daiō _,”_ Oikawa replies. “Her ‘great king.” 

The boy tilts his head slightly. “Interesting choice.” 

His question brings back an old memory of Oikawa’s mother, months before the fever hit. _You have your father’s fire in you,_ Daiō, she said, cupping his chin in her warm hands. She smiled at him in a way that hardened her usually soft demeanor. Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead. _I’m glad. You will need it in this world. “_ Mother just thought it was a fitting nickname,” Oikawa replies. 

The boy studies Oikawa with quiet curiosity. A thin trickle of sweat rolls down Oikawa’s back. He got the vague sense again that he’d seen this boy somewhere before, somewhere other than the burning. “You must be wondering where you are, great king.” 

“Yes, please,” Oikawa replies, sweetening his words to let the other know that he was harmless. “I’d be grateful to know.” The last thing he needed is for a killer with blood-flicked gloves to dislike him. 

The boy's expression remains distant and guarded. “You’re in the middle of Dateko.” 

Oikawa catches his breath. “Dateko?” The port capital of Aoba Johsai that sits on the northern coast of the country it’s perhaps the farthest city from Aoba Johsai and the place Oikawa originally wanted to escape to. Oikawa has an urge to rush out of bed and look out the open window at this fabled city, but he forces himself to keep his focus on the young aristocrat seated across from him, to hide his sudden excitement. 

“And who are you?” Oikawa says to him. “Sir?” He remembered to add. 

He bows his head once. “Iwaizumi Hajime,” he replies. 

“They called you...that is, at the burning...they said you’re the Reaper.” 

“I’m also known as that, yes.”

The hairs rise on the back of Oikawa’s neck. “Why did you save me?” 

Iwaizumi’s face relaxes for the first time as a small, amused smile emerges on his lips. “Some would thank me first.” 

_"Thank you_. Why did you save me?” 

The intensity of Iwaizumi’s stare turns Oikawa’s cheeks pink. “Let me ease you into that answer.” He uncrosses his legs, his boot hitting the floor, and leans forward. Now Oikawa can see that gold ring on his finger bears the simple engraving of a diamond shape. “The morning of your burning. Was that the first time you’ve ever created something unnatural?” 

Oikawa paused before he answered. _Should I lie? But then he would know-he’d been there at my burning; he knew what I’d been arrested for._ Oikawa decided to tell the truth. “No.” 

Iwaizumi considered his answer for a moment. Then he held one of his gloved hands out to Oikawa. 

He snaps his fingers. 

A small flame bursts to life on Iwaizumi’s fingertips, licking hungrily at the air above it. Unlike whatever it was that Oikawa created during his burning, this fire feels real, its heat distorting the space above it and warming Oikawa’s cheeks. Violent memories of his execution day flash through his mind. Oikawa shrank away from the fire in terror. _The wall of flames he pulled midair during my burning._ That was real too. 

Iwaizumi twists his wrist, and the flame dies out, leaving only a tiny wisp of smoke. Oikawa’s heart beats weakly. “When I was twelve years old,” Iwaizumi says, “the fever finally hit Aoba Johsai. It swept in and out within a year. I was the only one in my family affected. A year after the doctors pronounced me recovered, I still could not control my body’s warmth. I’d turn desperately feverish one moment, freezing cold the next. And then, one day, this.” He looks down at his hand, then back to Oikawa. “What's your story?” 

Oikawa opens his mouth, then closes it. It makes sense. The fever had struck the country in waves for a full decade, starting with Nekoma and ending in Aoba Johsai. Out of all the cities, Aoba Johsai had been hit the hardest-forty thousand dead, and another forty thousand marked for life. Nearly a third of their population, when put together. The city’s _still_ struggling to get back on its feet. “That’s a very personal story to tell someone you just met,” Oikawa manages to reply. 

Iwaizumi meets his stare with unwavering calm. “I’m not telling you my story so that you can get to know me,” he says. Oikawa blushes against his will. “I’m telling you to offer you a deal.” 

“You’re one of…” 

“And so are you,” Iwaizumi says. “You can create illusions. Needless to say, you caught my attention.” When Iwaizumi sees Oikawa’s skeptical look, he continues, “Word has it that the temples in Aoba Johsai have been overflowing with terrified worshippers ever since the stunt with your father.” 

_I can create illusions. I can summon images that aren’t really there and I can make people believe they are real._ A sickening feeling crawls from Oikawa’s stomach to the surface of his skin. _You are a monster, Oikawa._ He instinctively brushes his hand down his arm, as if attempting to rid himself of a disease. Father tried so hard to provoke something like this in Oikawa. Now it’s here. And he is dead. 

Iwaizumi waits patiently for Oikawa to speak again. Oikawa doesn’t know how much time passes before he finally murmurs, “I was four years old when I caught the fever. The doctors had to remove an infected tendon in my left leg.” Oikawa hesitates. “I’ve only done... _this_ … twice before. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary during my childhood.” 

Iwaizumi nods. “Some manifest powers later than others, but our stories are the same. I know what it’s like to grow up marked, Oikawa. All of us understand what it is like to be abominations.” 

_“All_ of us?” Oikawa asks. His mind wanders again to the black market’s wooden carvings, to the growing rumors of Seijoh. “There are others?” 

“Yes. From around the world.” 

_The Windwalker. Magiano. The Alchemist._

“Who are they? How many?” 

“Few, but growing. In the ten or so years since the blood fever died down in Aoba Johsai, some of us have started making our presence known. A strange sighting here, an odd witness there. Seven years ago, villagers in Karasuno stoned a little girl to death because she had covered the local pond with ice in the middle of summer. Five years ago, people in Nekoma set fire to a boy because he had made a bouquet of flowers bloom right before his sweetheart’s eyes.” Iwaizumi tightens his gloves, Oikawa’s eyes dart again to the bloody flecks that coat the leather. “As you can see, I keep my abilities a secret for obvious reasons. It wasn’t until I met another who also possessed strange powers given to him by the fever that I changed my mind.” 

“So. You’re apart of Seijoh.” There. Oikawa has said it aloud. 

“A name the people invented to refer to our youth and our unnatural abilities. The Inquisition hates it.” Iwaizumi smiles, a lazy expression of mischief. “I am the leader of Seijoh, a group that seeks out others like ourselves before the Inquisition can. But we are not the only ones-there are many others, I’m sure, scattered all across the world. My goal is to unite us. Burnings like yours happen every time the Inquisition thinks they’ve found a member. Some people abandon their own marked family members because they're afraid of ‘bad luck’. The king uses the _marked_ as an excuse for his poor rule. As if we are to blame for the state of his impoverished nation. If we don’t fight back, the king and his Inquisition Axis will kill us all, every child marked by the fever.” Iwaizumi’s eyes harden. “But we _do_ fight back. Don’t we Oikawa?” 

His words remind Oikawa of the strange whispers that have accompanied his illusions-something dark and vengeful, tempting and powerful. A weight presses on Oikawa’s chest. Oikawa is terrified. Intrigued. 

“What will you do?” Oikawa whispers. 

Iwaizumi leans back and looks out the window. “We will seize the throne, of course.” He sounds almost indifferent, like he’s talking about his breakfast. 

_He wants to kill the king? What about the Inquisition?_ “That's impossible,” Oikawa breathes. 

Iwaizumi gives Oikawa a sideways look, something simultaneously curious and threatening. “Is it?” 

Oikawa’s skin tingles, he peers closer at Iwaizumi. 

Then suddenly, Oikawa covers his mouth with one hand. _I know where I’ve seen him before._

“You-” Oikawa stammers. “You’re the prince.” 

_No wonder he looks familiar._ Oikawa had seen many portraits of the kingdom's firstborn prince as a child. He was the crown prince back then, the future king. The word was that he had nearly died from the fever. He came out of it marked instead. Unfit to be heir to the throne.. That was the last anyone heard about him, really. After his father the king died, Iwaizumi’s older sister stripped Iwaizumi of his crown and banished him permanently from the palace, never again to set foot near the royal family. Her husband, a powerful duke, became a king. 

Oikawa lowers his gaze. “Your Royal Highness,” he says, bowing his head. 

Iwaizumi replies with a single, subtle nod. 

“Now you know the real reason why the king and queen denounced the _marked._ It makes _marked_ look like abominations, and it keeps me unfit for the throne.” 

Oikawa’s hands start to tremble. Now he understands. Iwaizumi is assembling a team, a team to help him reclaim his birthright. 

Iwaizumi leans close enough for Oikawa to see slashes of a brilliant green in his eye. “I make you this offer, Oikawa Tooru. You can spend the rest of your life on the run, friendless and alone, always fearful of the Inquisition Axis finding you and bringing you to justice for a crime you did not commit. Or we can see if you belong with _us._ The gifts the fever left with you are not as unreliable as they might seem. There is a rhythm and science to controlling your power. There's a reason behind the chaos. If you wish, you can learn control. And you will be well paid for it.” 

When Oikawa stays silent, Iwaizumi lifts one gloved hand and touches Oikawa's chin. “How many times have you been called an abomination? He whispers. “A monster? Worthless?” 

_Too many times._

“Then let me tell you a secret.” He shifts so that his lips are close to Oikawa’s ear. A shiver dances down Oikawa’s spine. “You are not an abomination. You are not merely someone who is _marked._ That is why they fear you. The gods gave us powers, Oikawa, because _we are born to rule.”_

A million thoughts run through Oikawa’s mind-memories of his childhood, visions of his father and Tobio, of the Inqusition’s dungeons, the iron stake, Teren’s pale eyes, the crowd chanting against him. He remembers how he always crouched at the top of the stairs, pretending to rule from on high. _I can rise above all of this, if I become one of them. They can keep me safe._

Suddenly in the presence of this boy, the power of the Inquisition Axis seems very far away. 

Oikawa can tell that Iwaizumi is watching how his hair and lashes shift colors ever so slightly with the light. His gaze lingers where Oikawa’s hair covers his face. Oikawa blushes. Iwaizumi reaches out a hand. It falters there, as if waiting for Oikawa to shy away, but he stays very still until he finally touches his hair and tucks it carefully away from his face. 

He says nothing for a while. Then, he pulls the glove off of his hands. Oikawa gasps. Underneath the leath, his hand is a mass of burned flash, most of it healed over in thick layers of hideous scar tissue that must have accumulated over the years, while a few spots still remain red and angry. He replaces the glove, transforming the awful sight into one og black leather and flecks of blood. Of _power._

“Embellish your flaws,” he says softly. 

“They will turn into your assets. And if you become one of us, I will teach you to wield them like an assassin wields a knife.” His eyes narrow. His subtle smile turns dangerous. “So. Tell me, great king. Do you want to punish those who have wronged you?” 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Corrupt Society

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayyy another update, uh it's a little short so i'm sorry about that but i have bought another perspective into the mix. i've already started writing chapter 5, actually i'm done with the majority of it and i promise it's another long one. also this is a tad bit spicy so kind of a break from the angst. hopefully i'll have it done by tomorrow if i'm not lazy ;). but anyways enjoy some of this. i also have a twitter @funkydynaMight if u have any questions or just wanna say hi <3

* * *

_Ushijima Wakatoshi_

Late afternoon in Aoba Johsai. 

Ushijima waits behind a pillar lining the palace’s main courtyard, his heart in his throat, the white of his Lead Inquisitor cloak blending in with the marble. Shadows and sunlight play on his face. Farther up the courtyard’s path and partially hidden from view by rose vines, the queen of Aoba Johsai walks alone, her dark hair piled high on her head in a tumble of curls, her skin a warm hue under the sun. _Her Majesty, Queen Iwaizumi_ _Akari I of Aoba Johsai._

Ushijima waits until she’s close enough. 

When she walks past, he grabs her wrist and pulls her gently into the shadows behind the pillar. 

The queen lets out a soft gasp, then smiles at the sight of him. “You’re back,” she whispers. “And up to your boyish antics, I see.” 

Ushijima presses her tightly against the pillar. His lips brush against the skin of her neck. Her dress seems cut particularly low today, emphasizing the swell of her breasts, and he wonders with a surge of jealousy whether she wears it as temptation for the king-or for him. The king is a grown man, well into his forties. Ushijima is nineteen. _Does she like me for my youth? Perhaps she sees me as a boy, four years too young for her._ He marvels again at how lucky he is, to have drawn the attention of royalty. 

“I returned last night,” he whispers back. He kisses her deeply. “You asked to see me, Your Majesty?” 

The queen lets out a sigh as he kisses the line of her jaw. Her fingers run along the grooves of his silver belt, and he arcs toward her in longing. “Yes.” She stops him for a moment to give him a level look. Her eyes are very dark, so dark that sometimes the green in them were hardly noticeable. Like he could fall to his death in them. “So. Did they take him?” 

“They did.” 

“And will you be able to find him again?” 

Ushijima nods once. “I don’t know what curse the gods have brought down on us, to give us demons like this, but I promise you-he will be our advantage. He’ll lead me to them. I’ve already gathered five patrols of my best men.” 

“And the boy’s brother? You mentioned him in your report.” 

Ushijima bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Oikawa Tobio is in my custody.” He smiles briefly. “He’s unharmed.” 

The queen nods in approval. She reaches out and undoes a clasp on his uniform’s collar, exposing the hollow of his throat, then traces it with one slender finger. A breath escapes him. _Gods, I want you. I love you. I’m not worthy of you._ She tightens her lips, lost in her own thoughts, and then meets his eyes again. “Let me know when you find the boy. I dislike the embarrassment Seijoh is making of the crown.” 

_I would do anything for you._ “As you command, Your Majesty.” 

Akari touches his cheek affectionately. Her hand is cold. “The king will be pleased to hear it, as soon as he climbs out of his mistress’s bed.” She emphasizes her last words. 

Ushijima’s mood darkens at that. The king is supposed to be meeting with his council right now-not frolicking in bed with a lover. _He’s no king. He’s a duke the queen was forced to marry. A loud, arrogant, disrespectful duke._ He lowers his lips to hers, then steals another long kiss. His voice turns tender and aching. “When can you come to me again? Please.” 

“I’ll come to you tonight.” She gives him a careful smile, one full of calculated secrets. It is the smile of someone who knows exactly what to say to a boy soldier madly in love. She pulls him close enough to whisper in his ear. “I’ve missed you too.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in a bit of a conclusion ushijima is a simp, and iwaizumi's sister is a little scary.


	5. The Messenger Enters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alas i was not lazy and finished writing this chapter. this was definitely my favorite chapter that I've written so far so i hope you guys enjoy it. i've had a lot of free time in the last few days so thats why i was able to get this out so soon. which means i have a lot of the story pre-written actually which is good since next week is going to be hell with school. but anyways i hope u enjoy it.

* * *

_ Oikawa Tooru _

For a week, Oikawa never leaves his bedchamber. He floats in and out of consciousness, waking up only to eat the pastries and roasted quail brought daily into his room, and to let the maid change his robe and bandages. 

Sometimes Iwaizumi checks in on him, his face expressionless and his hands gloved, but no one aside from him and the maid visit. No more information about Seijoh. What they’ll do with Oikawa now, he has no idea. 

More days pass. Oikawa imagines what Tobio is doing right now, and whether he’s wondering the same about Oikawa. Whether he’s safe or not. Whether he’s searching for him, or moving on with his life. By the time another week comes around again, Oikawa has recovered enough to go without bandages. The chafing on his wrists and ankles had faded into faint bruises, and the swelling in his cheek had disappeared, returning his face to normal. He was thinner, though, and his hair had turned into a mess of knots, the spot where his father pulled at his scalp still tender. He studied himself in front of the mirror every night, watching how the candlelight splashes orange on his face, how it illuminates the scarred skin over his scarred leg. Dark thoughts swim in the corner of Oikawa’s mind. Something is alive in those whispers, clawing for his attention, beckoning him deeper into the shadows, and he’s afraid to listen to it. 

Oikawa looks the same. He also looks like a complete stranger. 

*****

Voices outside Oikawa’s bedchamber pull him out of his sleep and into the gold of morning light. He laid very still, listening to the conversation that drifts in through the door. 

Oikawa recognized the speakers immediately. Iwaizumi and the maid. 

“-business to attend to. Master Oikawa. How is he?” 

“Much better.” A pause. “What should I do with him today, Your Highness? He is well now, and growing restless. Shall I take him around the court?” 

A brief pause. Oikawa imagined Iwaizumi tightening his gloves, his face turned away from the maid, looking as disinterested as he sounds. Finally: 

“Bring him to Matsukawa.” 

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

The conversation ends there. Oikawa hears the footsteps echoing down the hall outside, then fading away and disappearing altogether. A strange disappointment hits him at the thought that Iwaizumi won’t be around. He’d hoped to ask him more questions.  _ The court,  _ that’s what the maid had called this building where they were all staying.  _ What kind of court? A royal estate? Who is Matsukawa?  _

Oikawa stayed in bed and waited until the maid bustled in. “Good morning, master,” she says from behind an armful of clothing and a bowl of steaming water. “Look at that! So much pink in your cheeks. Lovely.” 

It was odd, someone complimenting Oikawa all the time and catering to his every whim. But he smiled his thanks. As she scrubbed him all over and then dressed him in the white and blue tunic, accompanied with a pair of dark pants, he combed strands of hair across his face. He winces when the maid runs a brush along the injured part of his scalp. 

Finally, they’re ready. She guides Oikawa toward the door, and he takes a deep breath as he steps out of his bedchamber for the first time. 

They head down a narrow hallway that branches into two. Oikawa studies the walls. Paintings of the gods adorn them, tales of beautiful Pulchritas emerging from the sea and young Laetes falling from the heavens, the colors as vivid as if they had been commissioned only a week ago. Veined marble outlines the ceiling’s arch. Oikawa stares at the hall for so long that he starts to fall behind, and only when the maid calls for him to hurry does he turn his gaze away and quickens his steps. As they walk, he tries to think of something to say to her-but every time he opens his mouth, the maid smiles politely at him and then looks away in disinterest. He decides to stay quiet. They take another turn, and then abruptly stop before what seems like a solid wall and a line of pillars. 

The maid runs a hand along one side of a pillar, then pushes against the wall. Oikawa watches, stunned as the wall swings aside to reveal a new hall behind it. “Come, young master,” the maid says over her shoulder. Dumbstruck, he follows her. The wall closes behind them, as if nothing had ever existed beyond it. 

The longer they walk, the more curious Oikawa grows. The layout makes sense, of course. If this is a place where Seijoh stayed-assassins wanted by the Inquisition-then they wouldn’t have a door people could simply enter and exit straight from the straight. Seijoh was a secret hidden behind the walls of another building.  _ But what is this court?  _

The maid finally stopped at a tall set of doors at the end of a hall. The double doors are elaborately engraved with an image of Amare and Fortuna, god of Love and goddess of Prosperity, locked in an intimate embrace. Oikawa sucks in his breath. Now he knows where he is. 

This place is a brothel. 

The maid pulls the double doors open. 

They step into a gloriously decorated sitting room with a door along its walls that likely leads into a bedchamber. The thoughts redden Oikawa’s cheeks. Part of the room is open to a lush courtyard. Translucent lengths of silk drape low from the ceiling, stirring slightly, and trails of silver chimes sing in the breeze. The scent of jasmine hangs on the air. 

The maid knocks on the bedchamber door. 

“Yes?” someone answers. Even muffled through the doorway, Oikawa can tell how unusually lovely the voice is. Like a minstrel’s. 

The maid bows her head, even though there’s no one but Oikawa to witness it. “Master Oikawa is here to see you.” 

Silence. Then Oikawa hears the soft shuffle of feet, and a moment later, the door opens. He finds himself staring up at a boy who leaves him speechless. 

A famous poet from Karasuno once described a beautiful face as “one kissed by moon and water,” an ode to our three moons and the loveliness of their light on the ocean. He gave exactly two people this compliment: his mother, and the last prince of the Nekoma empire. If he were alive to see who Oikawa was now looking at, he would add him as a third.  _ Moon and water must love this boy desperately.  _

His hair, black and shining, drapes across one of his shoulders in a loose, wavy silken braid. His olive skin is smooth, flawless, glowing. The faint musk of night lilies envelops him in a veil, intoxicating, promising something forbidden. Oikawa is so distracted by his appearance that it takes him a moment to notice his marking-under canopies of long, dark lashes, one of his eyes is the color of honey under sunlight, while the other is the brilliant summer green of an emerald. 

The maid nods a hurried farewell to them both, then disappears down the hall, leaving them alone. The boy smiles at Oikawa, exposing dimples. “It’s good to meet you, Oikawa.” He takes Oikawa’s hands and leans down to kiss him on each cheek. Oikawa shivers at the softness of his lips. His hands are cool and smooth, his fingers slender and encircled with thin gold rings, his nails gleaming. His voice is as lyrical as it sounded through the door. “I’m Matsukawa.” 

A movement behind him distracts Oikawa. Despite the dimly lit bedchamber, Oikawa makes out the smooth outlines of another person turning over in his bed, his short brown locks catching the light. Oikawa glances back at Matsukawa. It’s a brothel, naturally.  _ Matsukawa must be a client.  _

Matsukawa notices Oikawa’s hesitation, then blushes and lowers his lashes in a single sweep. Never in Oikawa’s life had he seen such a graceful gesture. “Apologies. My work frequently continues until the morning.” 

“Oh,” Oikawa manages to reply.  _ I’m a fool. He isn’t the client at all. The main inside is the client, and Matsukawa is the consort.  _ With a face like his, Oikawa should have known immediately-but to him, a consort means a street prostitute. Poor, desperate workers selling themselves on the sides of roads and its brothels. Not a work of art. 

Matsukawa looks back at his bedchamber again, and when it seems like his client has fallen back into a deep slumber, he steps outside and closes the door without a sound. “Merchant princes tend to sleep late,” he says with a delicate smile. Then he nods at Oikawa to follow him. Oikawa marvels at the simple elegance of his movements, fine-tuned to perfection in the way he supposed a high-class consort would be.  _ Does this entire sitting room and courtyard belong to him?  _

“Sensing your energy this close is a bit overwhelming,” he says. 

“You can sense me?” 

“I was the one who first discovered you.” 

Oikawa frowns at that. “What do you mean?” 

Matsukawa guides them out of the sitting room and into the hall, until they reach a large courtyard of fountains. The breeze combs through Matsukawa’s hair, revealing several brilliant sapphire strands glistening under the black, jeweled lines moving against a night canvas. A second marking. “The night you ran away from home,” he says as they walk, “you paused in the central market.” 

Oikawa recoils at the memory. His father’s rain-washed face, split into a menacing grin, flashes before him. “Yes,” Oikawa whispers. 

“Iwaizumi sent me to the Southern Tohoku region for several months, to find those like you. I could sense you the instant I arrived in Aoba Johsai. Your pull was faint, though, something that came and went, and it took me several weeks to narrow my search to your area.” Matsukawa pauses before the largest fountain in the courtyard. “But the first time I  _ saw  _ you was in that market. I watched you ride off into the rain. Naturally, I sent word back to His Highness right away.” 

Someone had indeed been watching Oikawa that night.  _ A boy who can sense those like me-like us.  _ That must be his ability, just like Iwaizumi to fire, and himself to illusions. “You recruit marked individuals like us to Seijoh, then?” 

“Yes. They call me the Messenger, and the hunt is always an adventure. Of every thousand  _ marked,  _ there’s that  _ one.  _ After a potential recruit falls into the Inquisition’s hands, though, it’s difficult to save them in time. You’re the first we’ve pulled straight from their grasp.” Matsukawa winks a jewel-toned eye at him. 

“Congratulations.” 

The Reaper. The Messenger. A society full of double names and hidden meanings. Oikawa takes a deep breath, wondering about the other names he’d heard rumors of. 

“No one told me this place was a...a brothel,” Oikawa says. 

“A pleasure court,” Matsukawa specifies. 

“Brothels are for the poor and tasteless.” 

“A pleasure court,” Oikawa echoes. 

“Our clients come to us for music and conversation, beauty and laughter and wit. They dine and drink with us. They forget their worries.” Matsukawa smiles demurely. 

“Sometimes outside the bedchamber. Sometimes within.” 

Oikawa gives him a wary, sidelong look. “And I’m hoping I don’t have to become a consort to join Seijoh? Not to offend you, of course,” Oikawa adds in a hurry. 

Matsukawa’s gentle laugh answers Oikawa. Like everything else about Matsukawa, his laughter is perfectly refined, as lovely as summer bells, a sound that fills Oikawa’s heart with light. “Where you sleep is not who you are. You aren’t of age, Oikawa. No one at the court will force you to service clients-unless, of course, such work interests you.” 

Oikawa’s face burns at the suggestion. 

Matsukawa leads them around the side of the courtyard. Out here, the wind brings with it the sweet scent of spring. Oikawa can tell that the brothel- _ pleasure court- _ is situated on the side of a rolling hill, and when they reach a good outlook, Oikawa glimpses the city below. He catches his breath. 

Dateko. 

Redbrick domes and wide, clean roads. Curving spires, sweeping archways. Narrow side streets overgrown with colorful flowers and vines. Towering monuments that glean in the sun. People bustling from building to building, horses pulling carts loaded with casks and crates. Marble statues of the twelve gods and angels, their feet draped with flowers, line the main squares. Hundreds of ships pull into and out of the harbor, fat gallens and thin, quicksilver  _ caravelas,  _ their shining sails brown and white against the deep blue of the sea, their flags a rainbow of kingdoms from all over the world. Floating gondolas glide between them, fireflies among giants. A bell chimes somewhere in the distance. Off at the horizon, the misty outlines of a chain of islets appear before the flatness of the Karasano Sea. And up in the sky-

Oikawa gasps in delight as an enormous creature resembling an ocean ray glides lazily across the city’s harbor, its fleshy wings smooth and translucent in the light, its tail stretched out behind it in a long line. Someone-a tiny speck nearly lost from sight-rides on its back. The creature lets out a haunting note that echoes across the city. 

“A devilfish!” Oikawa exclaims. 

Matsukawa glances over his shoulder at Oikawa, his gestures so smooth and regal that one could mistake him for royalty. He smiles at Oikawa in joy. “I would think you’d often see them shipping cargo in Aoba Johsai, given your location near the waterfall arc.” 

“Never this close.” 

“I see. Well, we have warm, shallow waters, so they gather here in the summer to give birth. You’ll see your fill, trust me.” 

Oikawa shakes his head and continues to take in the scene. “The city’s beautiful.” 

“Only to a newcomer.” Matsukawa’s smile fades. 

“We are not like the other nations, where the fever was mild and where their few marked people are celebrated. Dateko was devastated by the fever. She has suffered ever since. Trade is down. Pirates plague our routes. The city grows poorer, and the people are hungry. People who are marked are scapegoats. A  _ marked  _ girl was just killed yesterday, stabbed to death in the streets. The Inquisition turns a blind eye.” 

Oikawa’s excitement wanes. When he looks again at the city below them, he notices the many boarded-up shops, the beggars, the white cloaks of Inquisitors. Oikawa turned away uncomfortably. “The story’s not much different in Aoba Johsai,” Oikawa mutters. A brief silence. “Where are the others?” 

They came upon a blank wall of stone behind a narrow corner of the courtyard, situated in such a way that you’d never think to stop here unless you knew better. Matsukawa runs his fingers along the wall before pushing against it-and to Oikawa’s surprise, it slides silently open. A cold rush of air greets them. Oikawa peers inside. Stairs of weathered stone wind their way down into the darkness. “Don’t think of them,” Matsukawa replies. “Today, it is just you and me.” A strange, pleasant tingle runs down Oikawa’s neck. Matsukawa says no more, and Oikawa decides not to press him for more information. 

They head into the gloom. Matsukawa pulls a small lantern from the wall and lights it, and the dim glow cuts black and orange shapes into the darkness. All Oikawa can see are the steps right before him and the folds of Matsukawa’s robes. A pleasure court with so many secret spaces. 

After a while, the stairs come to an end in front of another blank wall. Matsukawa unlocks this one too. It opens with a heavy groan. They step into a room lit by patches of light from a grating in its ceiling, the glow illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Moss covers the grating’s bars. In one corner, a table is overflowing with parchments and maps, strange orreries depicting the paths of the moons, and illuminated books. The space smells cool, and damp. 

Matsukawa walks over to the table and pushes some of his papers aside. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says. 

Oikawa suddenly tenses. “Why? What are we doing here?” 

Matsukawa doesn’t look at him. Instead, he opens a drawer in the table and takes out several different kinds of stones.  _ Stones  _ actually isn’t the best word. These are  _ gems,  _ raw and unpolished, freshly broken from the earth. Something seems familiar about this setup. Yes, Oikawa remembers now-operators on the streets will, for two copper lunes, place painted stones before a child and then tell him about his personality. 

“Are we playing some kind of game?” Oikawa asks. 

“Not quite.” Matsukawa rolls up his sleeves. “Before you can become one of us, you must pass a series of tests. Today is the first of those tests.” 

Oikawa tries to look calm. “And what’s the test?” 

“Every Seijoh member responds to energy in a unique way, and every Seijoh member has a different strength and weakness. Some people respond to strength and bravery. Others are wise and logical. Still others are ruled by passion.” Matsukawa glances down at the gems. “Today we’re going to figure out who  _ you  _ are. How  _ your  _ specific energy connects to the world.” 

“And what are the gemstones for?” 

“We are the children of gods and angels.” A kind smiles touches Matsukawa’s face.“It’s said that gems are lingering reminders of where the gods’ hands touched the earth during creation. Certain gems will call to the specific type of energy that flows in you. They work best in their natural form.” Matsukawa holds up one of the gems. In the light, it looks jagged and clear. “Diamond, for instance.” He puts it down and picks up another, this one with a blue tint. “Veritium too. There’s prase quartz, moonstone, opal, aquamarine.” He lays out one after another. Finally, twelve different gems sit on the table, each glinting a different color under the light. “And nightstone,” he finishes. “One for each of the gods and angels. Some will call you more than others.” 

Oikawa looks on, now more confused than wary. “Why do you tell me not to be alarmed?” 

“Because in a moment, you’re going to feel something very strange.” Matsukawa holds out a hand to Oikawa, gesturing for him to stand in the center of the room. Then Mastukawa starts placing the gemstones in a careful circle around Oikawa. “Don’t fight it. Just calm yourself and let the energy flow.” 

Oikawa hesitates, then nods. 

Matsukawa finishes placing the gems. Oikawa turns in place, looking at each of them with rising curiosity. Matsukawa steps back, observes Oikawa for a moment, and then crosses his arms with a sweep of silk sleeves. “Now, I want you to relax. Clear your mind."

Oikawa takes a deep breath, then tries to do as he says. 

Silence. Nothing happens. Oikawa stills his thoughts, thinking of calm water, of night. Nearby Matsukawa lowers his head in a nearly imperceptible nod. 

Oikawa feels an odd tingling in his arms and at the back of his head. When he looks down at the stones, he now sees that five of them have started to glow, as if lit from within, in shades of crimson, white, blue, orange, and black. 

Matsukawa glides around him in a slow circle, his eyes alight with curiosity. The way he’s circling Oikawa feels almost predatory, especially when he passes to the weak side of his vision and Oikawa has to turn his face in order to keep him in view. He lifts one foot slightly, his jeweled slipper pushing away each stone that did not glow. Mastukawa picks up the five remaining stones, returns to the desk, and lays them carefully out. 

Diamond, roseite, veritium, amber, nightstone. Oikawa bites his lip, impatient to find out what the five mean. 

“Good. Now, I want you to look at the diamond.” For a moment, Matsukawa doesn’t move. All he does is stare straight at Oikawa, his gaze calm and level, his hands slack at his sides. The distance between them seems to hum with life. Oikawa tries to concentrate on the stone and keep himself from trembling. 

Matsukawa tilts his head. 

Oikawa gasps. A rush of energy courses through him, something strong and light that threatens to carry him off his feet. He steadies himself against the wall. A memory rushes through his mind, so vivid and bright that he could swear that he was reliving it: 

Oikawa is eight years old, and Tobio is six. They run out to greet their father, who has just returned from a month-long trip to Dateko. He picks up Tobio, laughs, and spins him in a circle. Tobio squeals in delight as Oikawa stands by. Later that afternoon, Oikawa challenges Tobio to a race through the trees behind their home. Oikawa picks a route that is full of rocks and crevices, knowing full well that Tobio has just recovered from a fever and is still weak. When Tobio trips over a root, skinning his knees, Oikawa smiles and doesn’t stop to help him. He keeps running, running, running until the wind and him become one. He doesn’t need his father to spin him in a circle. He can already fly. Later that night, Oikawa studies the scarred portion, of his left leg, the strings of his silver hair. Then he picks up his hairbrush and smashes the mirror into a thousand pieces. 

The memory fades away. The bright glow pulses inside the diamond for a moment before fading away. Oikawa takes a shuddering breath, lost in a haze of wonder and guilt at the memory. 

What was  _ that?  _

Matsukawa’s eyes widen, then narrow. He looks down at the diamond. Oikawa glances at it too, half expecting it to glow with some color-but instead he sees nothing.  _ Maybe I’m too far away to tell.  _ Matsukawa looks at him. “Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity. Diamond shows your alignment to power and ambition, the fire inside you. Oikawa, can you hold your arms out to either side?” 

Oikawa hesitates, but when Matsukawa gives him an encouraging smile, he does as he says-he holds out his arms so that they are parallel to the floor. Matsukawa moves the diamond aside and replaces it with the veritium, now bathed in light. He studies Oikawa for a bit, then reaches out and pretends to pull at something invisible in the air. Oikawa feels an odd, pushing sensation, like someone is trying to shove him aside, searching for his secrets. Oikawa instinctively pushes back. The veritium flashes and lets off a brilliant blue glow. 

The memory that comes to him this time: 

Oikawa is twelve. Tobio and him sit together in their library, where Oikawa reads to Tobio from a book cataloging flowers. He can still remember those illuminated pages, the parchment crinkling like skeleton leaves.  _ Roses are so beautiful,  _ Tobio sighs in his innocent way, admiring the book’s images.  _ Like you.  _ Oikawa stays silent. A while later, when Tobio goes off to play at the harpsichord with Father, he ventures out to the garden to look at their rose bushes. He studies one of the roses carefully, and then looks at his crooked ring finger that his father broke years earlier. On a strange impulse, Oikawa reaches out and closes his hand tightly around the rose’s stem. A dozen thorns slash into the flesh of his palm. Still, he clenches his jaw and tightens his grip as hard as he can.  _ You’re right, Tobio.  _ Finally he releases the stem, staring in wonder at the blood that blooms on his hand. Scarlet stains the thorns.  _ Pain enhances beauty,  _ Oikawa remembers thinking. 

The scene fades. Nothing else happens. Matsukawa tells him to turn back around, and when he does, Oikawa notices the veritium is glowing a faint blue. At the same time, it gives off a tremulous note of music that reminds him of a broken flute. 

“Sapientus, god of Wisdom,” Matsukawa says. “You align with veritium for the truth in oneself, knowledge, and curiosity.” 

He moves on to the roseite without another word. For this one, he beckons Oikawa over to him and tells him to hum in front of it. When he does, a faint tingling runs down his throat, numbing it. The stone glows red for a long moment, then fades in a shower of glitter. The memory that accompanies it: 

Oikawa is fifteen. Father has arranged for several suitors to come to their home and take a look at both Tobio and him. Tobio stays demure and sweet the whole time, his tiny mouth puckered into a rosy smile.  _ I hate it when they look at me too,  _ he always tells him.  _ But you have to try, Tooru.  _ Oikawa catches him in front of his mirror, pulling his neckline down so that it shows more skin, smiling at the way his hair falls over his shoulders. Oikawa doesn’t know what to make of it. The men admire him at the dinner. They chuckle and clink glasses. He follows Tobio’s example; he flirts and smiles as hard as he can. He notices the hunger in their eyes whenever they glance at him, the way their stares linger on the line of his collarbone, his butt. Oikawa knows they want him too. They just don’t want him as a husband. One of them jokes about cornering him the next time he walks alone in the garden. Oikawa laughs with him. He imagines mixing poison into his tea, then watching his face turn purple and anguished; he pictures himself leaning over him, looking on patiently with his chin resting in his hands, admiring his dying, writhing body as Oikawa counts out the minutes. Tobio doesn’t think about such things. He sees happiness and hope, love and inspiration. Tobio is their mother. Oikawa is their father. 

Again the memory disappears into thin air, and again Oikawa finds himself staring at Matsukawa. There is a wariness in his gaze now, distance mixed with interest. “Amare, god of Love,” he says. “Roseite, for the passion and compassion in oneself, blinding and red.” 

Finally, he holds up the amber and nightstone. The amber gives off a beautiful golden-orange color, but the nightstone is an ugly rock, dark and lumpy and dull. “What do I do this time?” Oikawa asks. 

“Hold them.” Matsukawa takes one of Oikawa’s hands in his. Oikawa blushes at how smooth the palm of his hand is, how gentle his fingers feel. When he brushes past his broken finger, Oikawa winces and flinches away. Matsukawa meets his gaze. Although he doesn’t ask why Oikawa reacted to the touch, he seems to understand. “It will be okay,” he murmurs. “Hold your hand open.” he does, and he carefully places the stones in Oikawa’s hand. His fingers close around them. 

A violent shock ripples through Oikawa. A wave of bitter fury. Matsukawa jumps backward-Oikawa gasps, then collapses to the ground. The whispers in the dark corners of his mind now spring free of their cages and fill his thoughts with their noise. They bring a flurry of memories, of everything he’s already seen and everything he fought to suppress. His father breaking his finger, shouting at him, striking him, ignoring him. The night in the rain. His shattered ribs. The long nights in the Inquisitions dungeons. Ushijima’s colorless eyes. The crowd jeering at him, throwing stones at his face. The iron stake. 

Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut and presses his hands tightly to his ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out, but the maelstrom grows thicker, a curtain of darkness that threatens to pull Oikawa under. Papers fly up from the desk. The glass of Matsukawa’s lantern shatters. 

_ Stop. Stop. STOP.  _ Oikawa will destroy everything in order to make it stop.  _ I will destroy all of you.  _ He grits his teeth as his fury swirls around him, seething and relentless, yearning to burst free. Through the whirlwind, he hears his father’s harsh whisper. 

_ I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Tooru?  _

Oikawa’s fury heightens.  _ Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.  _

Then the shrieking fades. His father’s voice vanishes, leaving memories of it trembling in the air. He stays on the ground, his entire body shaking with the absence of his unexpected anger, his face wet with tears. Matsukawa keeps his distance. They stare at each other for a long time, until he finally walks over to help Oikawa to his feet. He gestures at the chair next to his table. Oikawa sits gratefully, soaking in the sudden peace. His muscles feel weak, and his left leg aches, he has a sudden urge to sleep, to dream away his exhaustion. 

After a while, Mastukawa clears his throat. “Formidite and Caldora, the twin angels of Fear and Fury,” he whispers. “Amber for the hatred buried in one’s chest. Nightstone, for the darkness in oneself, the strength of fear.” He hesitates, then looks him in the eye. “Something blackens your heart, something deep and bitter. It has festered inside you for years, nurtured and encouraged. I’ve never felt anything like it.” 

His father was the one who nurtured it. Oikawa shivers, remembering the horrible illusions that have answered his call. In the corner of the room, his father’s ghost lurks, partially hidden behind the ivy wall.  _ He’s not really there, he’s an illusion, he’s dead.  _ But there’s no mistaking it-Oikawa can see his silhouette waiting for him, his presence cold and haunting. 

Oikawa looks aways from him, lest Matsukawa think that he’s losing his mind. “What…,”Oikawa begins, then clears his throat. “What does it mean?” 

Matsukawa just gives him a sympathetic nod. He seems reluctant to discuss it any further, and Oikawa finds himself eager to move on as well. 

“We’ll see how Iwaizumi feels about this, and what this means for your training,” he goes on in a more hesitant tone. He frowns. “It may take some time before you’ll be considered a member of Seijoh.” 

“Wait,” Oikawa says. “I don’t understand. Am I not already one of you?” 

Matsukawa crosses his arms and looks at him. “No, not yet. Seijoh is made up of marked individuals like ourselves who have proven themselves capable of calling upon their powers whenever needed. They can  _ control  _ their talents with a level of precision that you cannot yet grasp. Do you remember how Iwaizumi saved you, the way he controlled fire? You need to be able to be your ability’s master. You will arrive there, I’m sure, but you’re not there yet.” 

The way Matsukawa says all this stirs a warning in Oikawa. “If I’m not apart of Seijoh yet, then what am I? What happens next?” 

“You’re an apprentice. We need to see if we can train you to qualify.” 

“And what happens if I don’t qualify?” 

Matsukawa’s eyes, so warm and sweet earlier, now seem dark and frightening. “A couple of years ago, he says gently, “I recruited a boy into our society who could call the rain. He seemed promising at the time-we had high hopes for him. A year passed. He could not learn to master his abilities. Did you hear about the drought that hit northern Aoba Johsai back then?” 

Oikawa nods. His father had cursed the rise in wine prices, and rumor had it that Nekoma had to cull a hundred prized horses because they couldn’t afford to feed them. People starved. The king sent out the Inquisition and killed hundreds during the riots. 

Matsukawa sighs. “The boy caused that drought by accident, and he could not stop it. He fell into panic and frustration. People blamed us, of course. The temples burned _ marked _ at the stake in hope that sacrificing us would lift the drought. The boy started acting strange and erratic, causing a public scene by trying to conjure rain right in the middle of a market square, sneaking off to the harbor at night to try to pull at the waves, and so forth. Iwaizumi was  _ not  _ pleased. Do you see? Someone who cannot learn to control his energy is a danger to us all. We do not operate for free. Keeping you safe here, feeding and clothing and sheltering you, training you...this all costs coin and time, but most of all, it costs our name and reputation to those loyal to us. You are an investment and a risk. In other words, you need to  _ prove  _ that you’re worth it.” Matsukawa pauses to take Oikawa’s hand. “I don’t like to frighten you. But I will not hide from you how seriously we take our mission. This is no game. We cannot afford a weak link in a country that wants us dead.” His grip tightens. “And I will do everything in my power to make sure you are a strong link.” 

He is trying to comfort Oikawa, even in his honesty. But there’s something he’s not saying. In the brief silent spaces between his words, Oikawa hears everything else he needs to know. They’ll be watching him. He needs to prove that he can conjure his powers again, and that he can wield them with precision. If for some reason he can’t control his abilities, they won’t just cast him out of Seijoh. Oikawa has seen their faces, where they stay, and what they do. He knows that the crown prince leads them. He knows too much.  _ A weak link in a world that wants us dead.  _ That weak link could be Oikawa. 

If Oikawa cannot pass their tests, then they will do to him what they must have done with the boy who could not control the rain. They will kill him.

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaahhh i'm sorry i couldn't resist writing matsukawa in such a pretty way T-T. next chapter will be a little short but will have a new perspective. as always i appreciate any comments, questions, thoughts on the story and kudos.


	6. Midnight Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, it makes me so happy to see in the comments that people are enjoying my writing. AAAHH it literally makes me so happy. Anyways, here is a new chapter from Matsukawa's perspective on his actual birthday. So WHOOO happy birthday Matsukawa, and Yahaba but he hasn't entered the story yet *winks*. This chapter is a little short but I think you guys will enjoy the interaction between Iwaizumi and Matsukawa. Enjoyyy <3

* * *

_Matsukawa Issei_

Midnight. The entire court is asleep, and Matsukawa sits alone in his bedchamber, turning the delicate pages of a book on the moons and tides. Waiting. Finally, a soft knock sounds at his door. He rises in one smooth motion, his beaded silks glittering in the candlelight, and walks on silent feet to let in the visitor. Iwaizumi enters with a sweep of dark robes, bringing with him the scent of wind, night, and death. Matsukawa bows respectfully. 

Iwaizumi closes the door behind him. “The Tournament of Storms,” he whispers. “It’s confirmed. The king and queen will make a rare appearance together there. It will be our best chance to strike both of them down.” 

Matsukawa nods. “Perfect.” 

Iwaizumi frowns at him. “You look tired,” he says. “Are you all right?” 

Matsukawa’s client for the evening had left over an hour ago. “I’m fine,” he decides to reply. 

“Did you see Oikawa today?” 

“Yes”

“And?”

He tells Iwaizumi about Oikawa’s test. How Oikawa reacted to each gem. Matsukawa touches on Oikawa’s alignment with the amber and nightstone, his overwhelming attraction to the twin rocks. As Matsukawa feared, Iwaizumi narrows his eyes in interest. Matsukawa shivers at his expression. He has recruited many members of Seijoh for the young prince in the past few years, but none has ever shown Iwaizumi’s alignment to diamond, such fiery ambition. Being near his energy is intoxicating. 

“Fear and Fury,” Iwaizumi says thoughtfully. In the candlelight, his eyes gleam. “Well. That’s a first.” 

Matsukawa takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. 

Iwaizumi keeps his gloved hands folded behind his back. “What do you advise?” 

“Get rid of him. Now.” 

“After all that trouble, you are asking me to kill him?” 

Matsukawa’s voice is pained, but firm. “Iwaizumi. Every single one of his memories was laced with darkness. It is an infection of the mind. Something is _very wrong_ with him. He should have manifested early, as a child, but only now has he started to find his power. It has built up inside him, and the energy feels twisted in a way that disturbs me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is ravenous to use it. I don’t know how he’ll respond to our training.” 

“You’re afraid of him,” Iwaizumi murmurs, intrigued. “Or perhaps you’re afraid of your fascination with him.” 

Matsukawa stays silent. _No. I’m afraid of_ your _fascination with him._

Iwaizumi’s eyes soften. “You know I trust you. I always have. But getting rid of him would be a waste. Oikawa has the potential to be very useful.” 

“He _will_ be very useful,” Matsukawa agees. The sapphire strands in his hair catch the light. He casts Iwaizumi a sideways look. “ _If_ he’ll obey you.” 

“I will take back my throne soon,” Iwaizumi whispers. “And the _marked_ will no longer live in fear.” Matsukawa could feel the threat of fire emanating from Iwaizumi’s body. “Oikawa has the potential to get us there, even if that potential lies within darkness. We’ve all seen what he can do. He has no reason to turn on us.” 

Matsukawa hesitates. “Tread carefully, Reaper. We don’t know the extent of his energy yet.” 

“Then train him. Let’s see how he does. If your opinion of him remains, I’ll get rid of him. But until then,” he says, his eyes hardening, “he stays.” 

_We are making a terrible mistake,_ Matsukawa thinks, but bows anyway. “As you command, Your Highness.” As he does, his hair tumbles forward and exposes his neck. Iwaizumi leans closer. Then he reaches out and gently pushes Matsukawa’s collar aside. 

Ugly red bruises circle the consort’s lower neck, as if someone has tried to choke him. Only now, as Iwaizumi touches Matsukawa’s chin and tilts his face in the direction of the light, does the faint purple bruising at the edges of his lips become noticeable. 

Iwaizumi looks Matsukawa in the eyes. “Did one of your clients do this to you?” 

Matsukawa’s eyes stay downcast. He adjusts his collar back into place, then brushes his hair across one shoulder in a glossy rope. He says nothing, knowing that his silence answers Iwaizumi’s question. 

“Tell me the name,” Iwaizumi murmurs. 

Matsukawa doesn’t speak for a moment. Most of his clients are gentle with him, even in their passion. But not all. Memories from earlier in the evening return, memories of rough hands on his beck, shoving him against the wall, striking his face, insults whispered harshly into his ear. It happened on very rare occasions, and he did not like troubling Iwaizumi with the details. Matsukawa’s work is important to Seijoh, after all-he might not have the same powers that the others do, but while his power cannot kill, it _does_ hypnotize. Many of his clients fall so feverishly in love with him that they become loyal patrons to Seijoh. Political alliances are made in his bed. 

Still. The work comes with its dangers. _I should tell my madam first; she will privately fine my client for his abuse and ban him from seeing me._ Instead, he meets Iwaizumi’s gaze. His gentle heart hardens. _But not this time. Some deserve punishment greater than a fine._ “Count Yūji Terushima,” he replies. Iwaizumi nods once. His expression doesn’t change, but his emerald eyes burn bright. He presses a gloved finger against Matsukawa’s chest. His voice is a quiet command. “Next time, do not keep secrets from me.” 

*****

The next morning, Inquisitors find Count Yūji Terushima’s dismembered body nailed to his front door, his mouth suspended in a scream, his corpse burned black beyond recognition. 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so Iwaizumi is a little tad bit scary, I still love him though. Next chapter Oikawa meets more members of Seijoh and begins their tests. Will Oikawa pass those tests??? Who knows....hehehehehe


	7. The Testing Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry there was such a delay to this chapter, I've been so busy with school these last couple of days. But I was FINALLY able to get this chapter out. I really hope you guys like it, and I hope you enjoy meeting the rest of the members of Seijoh :)  
> update: i adjusted the title a bit, let me know if any of u prefer it the old way, i thought it was a little aggressive looking before. also i'm currently writing another iwaoi fic where oikawa is a siren, i'll be updating it every friday and it is called 'to capture a heart' so feel free to check that out too :)

* * *

_Oikawa Tooru_

Tobio was afraid of thunder. 

When they were very little, Tobio would sneak into Oikawa’s bedchamber whenever a storm rolled through. Tobio would climb into Oikawa’s bed, wake him, and curl his little body against Oikawa’s, and Oikawa would wrap an arm around Tobio and hum their mother’s lullaby as the storm raged outside. Oikawa isn’t proud to admit it, but he always liked Tobio’s helplessness. It made him feel powerful. In those small moments, Oikawa was the better one. 

This is how his dream starts tonight. A dark storm rages outside his windows. Oikawa dreams that he wakes up in his bedchamber to find Tobio huddled beside him, under the blankets, his back turned to him, Tobio’s body trembling, the curls of his dark hair spread against Oikawa’s pillow. Oikawa smiles sleepily. 

“It’s all right, Tobio,” Oikawa whispers. He puts his arms around Tobio’s shoulders and starts to hum. “It’s only a storm.” 

_It will get worse,_ Tobio whispers back. His voice sounds strange, like a hiss. 

Inhuman. 

Oikawa stops humming. His smile fades. “Tobio”? He murmurs. Oikawa moves his arm and rolls Tobio to face him. 

Where Tobio’s face should be, there is instead nothing. 

The bed collapses beneath Oikawa-and suddenly he is falling. He falls down, down, down. He falls forever. 

_Splash._

Oikawa struggles to the surface, gasping, and wipes water from his eyelashes. _Where am I?_ He’s surrounded on all sides by what looks like a still ocean, with no land in sight. Above, the sky is charcoal gray. The ocean is black. 

Oikawa is in the waters of the Underworld. 

The realm of the dead. 

He knows this immediately because the light here is not like the light of the living world, finished and whole, chasing the shadows away with its warmth. The light here is dead, faint enough to keep everything in a constant state of gray, no colors, no sounds, only a quiet sea. Oikawa looks down into the dark water. The sight sends a coil of terror through his stomach. Deep, black, endless, filled with the gliding, ghostly silhouettes of monsters. 

_Tooru_

A whisper calls to him. Oikawa looks to his side. A child walks on the surface of the ocean, her skin as pale as porcelain, her body skeletal under the white silks, her long locks of black hair spread out across the ocean like a web of endless strands, stretching as far as the eye can see. This is Formidite, the angel of Fear, the daughter of Death. Oikawa wants to scream, but no sound comes out. She leans down toward him. Where her eyes and nose and mouth should be, he can see only skin, like someone has stretched cloth tightly across her face. It had been _her_ curled in Oikawa’s bedchamber, not Tobio. 

_Fear is power,_ she whispers. 

Then from beneath the water’s surface, a bony hand grabs Oikawa and pulls him under. 

*****

Oikawa sits up in his bed, trembling from head to toe. Everything vanishes, replaced with his empty bedchamber at the Court. Rain slaps weakly against his windows. 

After a few moments, he leans his head wearily against his arms. Images of his brother linger in his mind, fragments of ghosts. Oikawa wonders whether it’s raining where Tobio is, and whether he is sleepless because of the thunder. 

_What am I going to do?_ Oikawa tries, as he always does, to grasp the energy buried deep inside him and pull it to the surface, but nothing’s there. _What if I can never do it again? Good,_ a part of him thinks. _Maybe I shouldn’t use my powers again._ Yet that thought makes his stomach flip. 

_What if I escape tonight? Runaway from the Seijoh group?_ Matsukawa’s ominous words play over and over in Oikawa’s mind. He had mentioned nations in the colder parts of the country that revere the _marked_ and members of _Seijoh-_ Oikawa could flee Dateko and sail far north. But even as he considers it, he knows it’s dangerous and pointless. _Stay calm, Tooru, and think._ If he were to try running away from this group, how would he manage to stay ahead of them? They have finely honed powers-Oikawa doesn’t. What Oikawa does have is the Inquisition Axis on his trail, probably combing their way through southern Aoba Johsai at this very moment, waiting for him to make a wrong move. If Oikawa couldn’t run from the Inquisition when he first tried to escape, how could he hope to evade Seijoh as well? They would never rest until they caught him; they’d silence him before he could potentially give away their secrets. They might catch him before he even reached the harbor-and even if he could board a ship, Seijoh may simply tail him wherever he goes. They’re most likely watching him right now. Oikawa will forever be watching his back. His chances are close to impossible. 

So Oikawa contemplates his second option. 

What if he _does_ become one of them? 

What more would he have to lose? He’s no safer on his own than if he remains with them. But if he wants to survive, he needs to stay and prove himself. And in order to do that, he not only needs to learn how to control his energy-he also needs to make some allies. Some friends. Setting out alone hasn’t exactly worked well for him. He shivers when he remembers the reaction he had to the nightstone, how whatever Matsukawa did had forced a darkness from within Oikawa and brought it to the surface. 

What if that’s who he is? _Be true to yourself,_ Tobio once told him when Oikawa was trying in vain to win Father over. But that’s something everyone says and no one means. No one wants you to be yourself. They want you to be the version of yourself _that they like._

 _Fine._ If Oikawa needs to be liked, _loved,_ then that’s what he’ll do. He’ll win Iwaizumi’s approval. Impress him. 

By the time dawn finally creeps into Oikawa’s room and bathes it in pale gold, he’s exhausted. He stirs when someone knocks faintly on his door. Probably the maid again. “Come in,” Oikawa calls out. 

The door opens a little. It isn’t the maid who has come to see him, but Matsukawa. This time he’s clad in a beautiful black robe trimmed with swirls of gold, his sleeves wide and billowing. Thin gold chains encircle both his forehead and his neck, hiding his throat from view, and his loose braid of hair cascades over one shoulder, strands of sapphire shimmering against the dark like peacock’s feather. His jewel-toned eyes are rimmed with bold lines of black powder. He looks even more stunning than Oikawa remembers, and Oikawa turns away his stare in embarrassment. 

“Good morning,” Matsukawa says, coming over to Oikawa. He shows no signs of the hesitation he felt toward him after the gemstone incident. “Iwaizumi and the others have returned.” He gives Oikawa a serious look. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” 

Oikawa dresses hurriedly. Matsukawa guides him down into the secret tunnel again, the same direction they went when he tested his energy. This time, though, they continue walking past the room’s door and farther down the tunnel, until the darkness swallows them. Their footsteps echo. As they go, the ceiling seems to rise higher and higher. A cold, damp smell fills the air. 

“How far does this go?” Oikawa whispers. 

Matsukawa’s smooth voice floats to him from up ahead. “Below the streets of Dateko lie the catacombs of the dead.” 

_The catacombs._ Oikawa shivers. 

“These tunnels lead all across the city,” he continues. “They connect some of our safe houses, the homes, and estates of our patrons. There are so many tunnels and tombs under the city that a great number have been forgotten over the ages.” 

“It’s wet down here.” 

“Spring rains. Luckily, we’re on high ground.” 

They finally reach a tall set of double doors. Gems embedded in the ancient wood gleam in the low light. Oikawa recognizes them as the same types of gems Matsukawa used to test him. 

“I asked one of our members to embed them,” Matsukawa explains. “Only the heightened energy of a member's touch can bond with gems. Their energy, in turn, moves the switches inside the doors to open them.” He nods at Oikawa. “Pay your respects, Oikawa. We are in the realm of the dead now.” 

Matsukawa murmurs a brief prayer to Moritas, the goddess of Death, for safe passage, and Oikawa follows his example. When they finish, Matsukawa closes a hand over one of the door’s embedded gems. 

The gems started to glow. As they do, an elaborate series of clicks sound out inside the wood, as if unlocking from within. Oikawa watches in wonder.r An ingenious lock. Matsukawa looks at him, and a spark of sympathy seems to light his eyes. “Be brave,” he whispers. Then he throws his weight against the doors. They open. 

An enormous cavern the size of a ballroom looms before them. Lanterns on the walls illuminate pools of water that have collected along the floor. The walls are lined with stone arches and pillars that look like they were carved centuries ago, most standing tall, some collapsed and scattered on the ground. Glowing reflections of pale light on the water float, webbed and shifting, against the stone. Everything takes on a greenish cast in here. Oikawa can hear the drip of water coming from somewhere far away. Illuminated drawings of the gods decorate the walls, worn down from ancient receding water despite the artists’ best efforts. He can tell immediately that the art is centuries old, a style from a different era. Along the walls are niches filled with dusty urns, holding the ashes of forgotten generations. 

But what really catches Oikawa’s attention is the small half-circle of people waiting down here for them. Aside from Iwaizumi, there are four of them. Each is turned in their direction, wearing a dark blue cloak that resembles Seijoh. Their expressions are hard to read, eerie in the dim light. Oikawa tries to gauge their ages. They must be about his age; those who survived the fever were children, after all. One of them is enormous, his robes barely masking thick, muscular arms that seem like they could rip a man to pieces. Beside him is a boy that looks small and slight, with a hand resting easily on his hip. He’s the only one who nods at him in greeting. An enormous golden eagle perches on his shoulder. Oikawa smiles back hesitantly, his stare fixed nervously on the eagle. Beside the boy stands another boy leaner than him, and last is another boy who is broad-shouldered with copper-looking curls, his skin too pale. He crosses his arms and regards Oikawa with a slight tilt to his head, and his eyes seem cold and curious. Oikawa’s smile fades. 

Front and center before them stands Iwaizumi, his hair almost the color of blood, his hands folded behind his back, and his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Oikawa. Gone is the hint of mischief in him that Oikawa saw when they first talked in his chamber. Today, his expression is hard and unforgiving, the young prince replaced with a cold-blooded assassin. The cavern’s strange lighting casts a shadow over his eyes. 

Oikawa and Matsukawa stop a few feet away from them. 

Matsukawa addresses the group first. “This is Oikawa Tooru,” he says, his voice clear and beautiful. “Our newest potential recruit. He has the power of illusion, the ability to trick one’s perception of reality.” 

Oikawa feels he should speak, but he’s not sure what to say. So he simply faces them with as much courage as he can muster. 

Iwaizumi looks at him. Oikawa doesn’t know why, but he feels drawn to him just like the first day they met. It is the straightness of his shoulders, the regal lift of his head. Oikawa’s alignment to ambition stirs at the sight. “Tell me, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi begins. His words echo in the cavern. “Have you ever heard the rhyme ‘A newborn babe takes its first breath and creates a storm that rains down death’?”

“Yes,” Oikawa replies. 

“Nothing is isolated. Do one thing, however small, and it will affect something else on the other side of the world. In a way, you are already connected to each of us.” 

Iwaizumi takes a step closer to Oikawa. The others remain still. “You are the first _marked_ to align so strongly with the nightstone. There is a darkness in you, something that gives you immense strength.” Iwaizumi narrows his eyes. “Today, I want to bring that to the surface and find a way for you to call upon it as you wish. Learn how to bed it to your will. Do you accept?” 

_Do I have a choice?_ After a moment’s silence, Oikawa lifts his chin. “Yes, Your Highness.” 

Iwaizumi gives him an approving nod. “Then we shall use everything within our power to evoke yours.” 

Matsukawa steps away from Oikawa. The fact that Oikawa is now standing alone sends a spike of uncertainty through his chest, and he finds himself wishing that he, the only person in here who doesn’t frighten him, would stay by his side. The others talk in low voices among themselves. Oikawa looks around the half-circle of their faces, searching for help, but the only kindness he gets comes from the boy with the eagle on his shoulder. He sees Oikawa’s anxiety and gives him a subtle, encouraging nod. Oikawa tries to latch on to that. 

Iwaizumi raises one hand in the air. “Let’s begin.” Then he snaps his fingers-and every torchlight in the cavern flickers out at once. 

The room goes dark. 

For a second, Oikawa panics. He’s completely blind. The dizziness that he felt yesterday with the nightstone now floods his senses. He looks wildly around, blinking. Nothing but silence. Then, occasionally, a gust of cold wind-murmur of breath-an echoing footstep. Oikawa’s heart pounds. _Please, let there be a little light._ He squints hard into the darkness, trying to force his sight to adjust. Right as he’s able to make out the faint outlines of the cavern floor, he notices that all of the Seijoh members are gone. 

Suddenly, Iwaizumi’s voice comes from somewhere in the darkness. “Spider. Star Thief.” Its deepness now frightens Oikawa. 

Oikawa tenses. Nothing happens. 

Then, out of nowhere, rushes of wind. The beating of wings. Suddenly there are thousands-millions-of them, squealing little creatures with fleshy wings beating against Oikawa, whirling around him in invisible circles in the blackness. Oikawa screams, then falls into a crouch as they swarm. His arms cover his head. Bats. They’re bats. Their tiny claws cut at his skin. He squeezes his eyes. 

Someone large shoves him violently backward. Oikawa goes flying, then falls hard to the ground. The blow knocks all the wind out of him. He gasps for air. A sharp metal edge slices across his upper arm-he cries out, his arms flying up in defense, but another cut slits open the skin of his other arm. Warmblood trickles out. Oikawa turns his head frantically from side to side. _Where is my attacker_? He can’t see a thing. Someone kicks him in the back. He arches at the sharp pain. Another kick-and then the feeling of rough hands grabbing Oikawa by his robe, and hauling him up in the air. He grasps desperately for his power, wishing he could pull it from deep within. But nothing happens. As he struggles, a low growl of a voice comes from somewhere in front of his face. 

“He’s weak,” Spider snaps. “He’s a little _lamb.”_

Oikawa clenches his teeth and struggles, kicking out with his legs. He strikes only air, and collapses to the floor. 

“He has a bite,” someone says elsewhere in the cavern. It sounds like Matsukawa. 

One lantern flickers on in the cavern and its glow catches Oikawa off guard-and he squints in its direction. The millions of bats flutter fiercely in the new light, screaming, then they swarm into a cloud and disappear down one of the cavern’s dark tunnels. As if they’d never been here in the first place, Oikawa glances around. A short distance away is the hulking boy, who must be Spider, and the other boy with the eagle. Elsewhere, standing by pillars and walls in the shadows, Oikawa notices others. One of them snickers. Thin trickles of blood drip down Oikawa’s arms. The cuts look smaller than he expected, considering how much they stang. _They’re not even trying,_ Oikawa thinks feverishly. _They’re toying with me. How had Spider even been able to see me in the darkness?_

The light vanishes. Oikawa’s vision adjusts faster this time-and in the darkness, he can see the faint silhouette of the Spider crouching. He attacks again. This time, he rushes at Oikawa with terrifying speed and disappears from view right before he can reach him. Oikawa looks around for him, cursing his poor peripheral vision. 

He materializes on Oikawa’s weak side. Then he catches Oikawa around the neck before he’s able to stop him. His arm tightened, choking Oikawa. He struggles. _Sight._ Oikawa realizes abruptly that his powers must give him the ability to see where others cannot. “I’ll have a sheepskin decorating my floor tonight,” Spider says. 

Oikawa throws an elbow as hard as he can. Spider must not have expected him to fight back, because Oikawa hits him hard in the throat. He gags, releasing Oikawa again. Oikawa falls to his knees, gasping. Spider whirls around, his eyes narrowed at him in rage, and Oikawa braces himself for another attack. 

“Enough,” Iwaizumi says quietly. The word is a low, disapproving command that emerges from the shadows. 

Spider steps away from Oikawa. He crumples in relief, sucking up air in the darkness. The torch lights all flicker on again. They stare at each other-the young members' eyes honey-colored and gruff, Oikawa’s wide and stricken. He doesn’t feel anything in his chest except for the pounding of his heart. 

Then Spider straightens and sheathes his blade. He doesn’t bother helping Oikawa up. “Weakingly,” he says, his voice full of disdain. “Should’ve left you to the Inquisition and saved us all the trouble.” He turns away from Oikawa. 

A spark of anger shoots through Oikawa. He imagines what it would be like if he strangled him in return, his dark illusions flowing down his throat and blocking his air. _Can my powers do that?_ The whispers hiding in Oikawa’s mind nod, hungry and eager. _Yes,yes._ “Coward,” Oikawa whispers to Spiders back. He doesn’t hear him, but the boy with the eagle-Star Thief, Oikawa supposes-does. He blinks. 

Iwaizumi studies Oikawa with interest as Matsukawa whispers something in his ear. _Do they approve?_

A moment later, Iwaizumi raises his voice. 

“Windwalker.” 

_Windwalker?_ Oikawa looks around the cavern, searching for his next opponent. Finally, he catches a glimpse. He’s the tall, pale boy. He chuckles as he steps towards Oikawa, sleek and menacing, and Oikawa takes a step back. “With pleasure, Your Highness,” he says to Iwaizumi. 

Oikawa’s breathing is too rapid. _Calm down. Focus._ But the force of the last attack has left him trembling, and the anticipation of what might come next sends prickles of terror down his skin. Spider has the power to see in complete darkness. _What can the Windwalker do? Fly, perhaps?_

Then-a piercing scream shatters Oikawa’s senses. He flinches. His hands fly to his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the sound, but it only grows worse. The sound destroys everything around him, turning the world into blinding streaks of red and piercing every corner of his mind. Oikawa can’t see. Can’t think. It goes on and on, a razor-sharp knife digging into his ears. Oikawa must be bleeding. He can feel the dull sensation of cold stone against his skin. Tears stream down his cheeks. _I’ve fallen,_ he realizes dully. 

Something stirs faintly in the depths of Oikawa’s body, but he reaches out for it and misses. _What kind of power is this? How do I fight it? How do you shut out a scream that comes from inside your mind?_ Oikawa tries to struggle to his feet, but the scream overwhelms him. It ripples through the air, again and again, threatening to drown him. 

Somehow, through the chaos, Oikawa hears the Windwalker’s voice against his ear. It sounds like he’s right beside him. When Oikawa jerks his head to the side, he sees him. 

He laughs. “Watch your step,” he taunts. 

Suddenly Oikawa feels himself being lifted off the ground by an invisible curtain of wind. Windwalker’s arms are stretched out in Oikawa’s direction. He lifts him higher, then makes a cutting gesture with one hand. Wind rushes past Oikawa’s ears-he flies across the chamber. His back hits the wall hard. He crumples to the ground like a broken doll. All around him, the screaming continues. 

_I can’t do this_. Oikawa curls into a ball as Windwalker comes closer. He kneels before Oikawa-all he can make out of him now is his sly smile. The scream in his mind is shattering his soul, and the pain of being thrown makes his breath short. The scream sounds like Oikawa's own. He sees himself being dragged through the rain by his hair, his father’s face staring straight into his. Behind them, Tobio screams at him to stop. Their father ignores Tobio. 

Oikawa can’t take it anymore. His anger rises-he reaches for the energy just out of his grasp. His father’s ghost hovers before him, and his brother's shrieks surround them. Disoriented, Oikawa lets out a strangled cry and claws at the open air. 

His hand strikes something. Suddenly the shrieks around him stop, and his father and brother vanish. This time, Oikawa doesn’t hear more snickers. To his shock, Windwalker is hunched several feet away, holding his neck. A thin trickle of blood runs down his hand where Oikawa raked him with his fingernails. With a start, Oikawa realizes that he must have struck Windwalker when he thought he was striking at his father. The rage inside him still churns, a black, seething fury, almost within Oikawa’s reach. 

Oikawa greets his teeth at Windwalker. “Is that it?” He suddenly snaps. “Attacking me while I’m defenseless?” 

Windwalker stares at him in silence. Then he removes his hand to show Oikawa the gash he caused. “You’re far from defenseless.” Several thin lines are scored into the skin of his throat. Without a word, he walks over and helps Oikawa onto his trembling feet. “Not too bad,” he says, without a hint of malice in his voice. “You like being provoked. I can tell.” 

Gradually, Oikawa’s anger fades into bewilderment. _Did he just compliment me?_ “What,” Oikawa manages to say, “is your power, exactly?” 

Windwalker laughs at Oikawa’s expression. He seems completely unconcerned about his scratched neck and is somehow friendlier to Oikawa. “Whatever the wind can do, whistle, scream, howl, uproot you from the earth-I can do too.” 

He leaves Oikawa. All around the cavern, the others whisper among themselves, their voices echoing in the empty space. Finally, Iwaizumi steps forward, his hands folded calmly behind his back. 

“Better.” He tightens his lips. “But not enough.” 

Oikawa waits there, swaying on his feet, regaining his breath. Iwaizumi’s eyes are tearing him to the bone, bringing with them a wave of terror and excitement. 

“The problem, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says as he approaches him, “is that you simply aren’t afraid.” 

Oikawa’s heartbeat quickens. “I _am_ afraid,” he whispers. But his words sound unconvincing. What is he going to do to him? 

“You _know_ your life is not at risk,” Iwaizumi continues. “You don’t embrace your darkness unless you are staring straight at death. Therefore you cannot connect with your fear and your fury.” He unfolds his hands from behind his back. “Let me see if we can correct that.” 

A ring of fire bursts to life around them, turning the dark cavern into an illuminated space. The flames stretch to the ceiling. Oikawa jumps away in terror at the heat against his skin. A scream threatens to bubble up from his throat. _No. No, no._ Not fire. Anything but that. All he can see are Iwaizumi’s eyes locked on his, green, and determined. So much fire. 

_I’m not tied to the stake. I’m okay. I’m okay._ But Oikawa doesn’t believe himself. They are back at the burning-the Inquisition is going to kill him in front of everyone, happy to watch fire consume him in punishment for his father’s death. The gods save him. Suddenly, the attacks from the others pale in comparison. The flames feel like they’re closing in. They _are_ closing in. _I can’t breathe._

Iwaizumi is forcing Oikawa to _relive the feeling_ of staring straight at death. 

Iwaizumi reaches Oikawa. As flames roar all around them, he leans close enough for Oikawa to feel the heat of his body through his robes, the sheer power hidden underneath. The fear that has been building in Oikawa’s chest since Spider first attacked him now rushes through him in an unstoppable current, turning his limbs numb. One of Iwaizumi’s hands touches the small of his back. A violent, irresistible wave of heat emanates from his touch and pulses through Oikawa’s body, scalding him. The flames around them lick at the edges of Oikawa’s sleeves-he watches in terror as the fabric curls, blackening. Everything about Iwaizumi whispers of danger, of murder in the name of righteousness. Oikawa is desperate to pull away. But he also aches for more. He trembles uncontrollably, caught in the middle. 

“I know you crave fear.” Iwaizumi’s breath scorches the skin of Oikawa’s exposed neck. “Let it build. Nurture it, and it will give back all of your care tenfold.” 

Oikawa tries to concentrate, but all he can feel is the heat. The stake, the pile of wood at his feet. The eyes of his dead father, forever haunting his dreams. _You are a killer,_ his ghost whispers. _But how many have the Inquisition killed? How many more will they kill? Wouldn’t I have been one of the Inquisition's victims, had Seijoh not come to the rescue?_

With the fire all around them, with Iwaizumi’s hands hot against Oikawa’s silks, with his words in his ears and his body still trembling from the others’ attacks, the combination of his fear, hatred, anger, and desire finally fuse into one. Oikawa can feel the uncontrollable darkness growing inside him, million of threads that connect everything in the world to everything else, the badness inside Iwaizumi, the wickedness inside everyone them, growing until he’s able to reach down and close his mind around a handful of those threads and _pull_ on them. The darkness bows to Oikawa, eager for the embrace. He closes his eyes, and opens his heart to the feeling, and soaks in the delight of vengeance. 

_Show me what you can do,_ his father’s ghost whispers. 

Black silhouettes rise up and out of the ground, their shapes demonic and their eyes scarlet red, their fangs dripping blood. They father around them, growing taller and taller, until they reach the cavern’s ceiling. They wait patiently for Oikawa’s command. Oikawa is swept away, both giddy with joy at the feeling of power and terrified that he is completely helpless to it. 

Iwaizumi removes his hand. 

The sudden lack of contract distracts Oikawa, and in a flash, his silhouettes disappear. The demons shrink into the ground. Iwaizumi’s columns of fire vanish. They’re back in the heavy silence of the cavern, as if nothing had happened. Oikawa’s shoulders droop from the effort. Without the fire, the space has returned to its eerie green glow. The others aren’t laughing anymore. Oikawa glances as Matsukawa. He looks stricken, his brows furrowed in a tragic line. 

Iwaizumi steps away. Oikawa sways on weak legs. If Oikawa didn’t know better, he’d say that Iwaizumi seems surprised himself. 

All Oikawa knows is that he wants to do it again. He wants Iwaizumi to touch him, he wants to feel that flow of power, and he wants to see the other members' intimidation. 

He wants something _more._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope u guys enjoyed this chapter, as always I appreciate any comments on the story so far, and kudos!!


End file.
